XXII

"COME INTO THE GARDEN,

MAUD "

From Maud

COME into the garden. Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown, Come into the garden. Maud,

I am here at the gate alone;

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,

And the planet of love is on high,

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,

To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard

The flute, violin, bassoon;

All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune;

Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

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Come into the Garden, Maud "

I said to the lily, "There is but one,

With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play."
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;

Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.

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I said to the rose, The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.

O young lord-lover, what sighs are those,
For one that will never be thine?

But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
"For ever and ever, mine."

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,

As the music clash'd in the Hall;

And long by the garden lake I stood,

For I heard your rivulet fall

From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,

Our wood, that is dearer than all;

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From the meadow your walks have left so sweet

That whenever a March-wind sighs

He sets the jewel-print of your feet

In violets blue as your eyes,

To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.

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The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;

The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;

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Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,

To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear

From the passion-flower at the gate,

She is coming, my dove, my dear;

She is coming, my life, my fate.

The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near; And the white rose weeps, "She is late;" The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"

And the lily whispers, "I wait.”

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;

Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

1855.

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74

Lord Tennyson.

IV

O THAT 'T WERE POSSIBLE

From Maud

O THAT 't were possible

After long grief and pain

To find the arms of my true love
Round me once again!

When I was wont to meet her
In the silent woody places

By the home that gave me birth.
We stood tranced in long embraces
Mixed with kisses sweeter, sweeter
Than anything on earth.

A shadow flits before me,

Not thou, but like to thee:

Ah, Christ, that it were possible

For one short hour to see

The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be!

It leads me forth at evening,

It lightly winds and steals

In a cold white robe before me,

When all my spirit reels

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At the shouts, the leagues of lights,
And the roaring of the wheels.

Half the night I waste in sighs,
Half in dreams I sorrow after
The delight of early skies;
In a wakeful doze I sorrow
For the hand, the lips, the eyes,
For the meeting of the morrow,
The delight of happy laughter,
The delight of low replies.

'T is a morning pure and sweet,
And a dewy splendor falls
On the little flower that clings
To the turrets and the walls;
'T is a morning pure and sweet,
And the light and shadow fleet;
She is walking in the meadow,
And the woodland echo rings;
In a moment we shall meet;
She is singing in the meadow,
And the rivulet at her feet
Ripples on in light and shadow
To the ballad that she sings.

Do I hear her sing as of old,

My bird with the shining head,

My own dove with the tender eye?

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But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry,

There is some one dying or dead,

And a sullen thunder is roll'd;