WITH blackest moss the flower plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all;
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the peach to the garden wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange,
Unlifted was the clinking latch,
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,-
I would that I were dead!"
Her tears fell with the dews at even,
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement curtain by,
And glanced athwart the gloomy flats.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Upon the middle of the night,
Waking, she heard the night fowl crow :
The cock sung out an hour ere light;
From the dark fen the oxen's low
Came to her without hope of change,
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the grey-eved morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "The day is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
About a stone-cast from the wall,
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The cluster'd marishmosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver green with gnarled bark,
For leagues no other tree did dark
The level waste, the rounding grey.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up an'
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low,
And the wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
All day within the dreamy house
The doors upon their hinges creak'd; The blue fly sung i' the pane; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd, Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd through the doors,
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices call'd her from without.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Down-sloped was westering in his bower.
Then, said she, "I am very dreary,
He will not come," she said;
I would be a merman bold;
I would sit and sing the whole of the day;
I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power;
But at night I would roam abroad and play
With the mermaids in and out of the rocks,—
Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower,
And holding them back by their flowing locks.
I would kiss them often under the sea,
And kiss them again till they kissed me,
Laughingly, laughingly;
And then we would wander away, away,
To the pale green sea-groves straight and high,
Chasing each other merrily.
There would be neither moon nor star;
But the wave would make music above us far ;
Low thunder and night in the magic light,-
Neither moon nor star.
We would call aloud in the dreamy dells,
Call to each other, and whoop and cry
All night, merrily, merrily:
They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells, Laughing and clapping their hands between,
All night, merrily, merrily;
But I would throw to them back in mine
Turkis, and agate, and almondine;
Then, leaping out upon them unseen,
I would kiss them often under the sea,
And kiss them again till they kissed me,
Laughingly, laughingly.
Oh! what a happy life were mine
Under the hollow-hung ocean green :
Soft are the moss-beds under the sea;
We would live merrily, merrily.
WHO would be
A mermaid fair,
Singing alone,
Combing her hair
Under the sea,
In a golden curl,
With a comb of pearl,
On a throne?
I would be a mermaid fair;
I would sing to myself the whole of the day;
With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair;
And still as I comb'd I would sing and say,
"Who is it loves me? who loves not me?"
I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall,
Low adown, low adown,
From under my starry sea-bud crown,
Low adown and around,
And I should like a fountain of gold
Springing alone,
With a shrill inner sound,
Over the throne
In the midst of the hall;
Till that great sea-snake under the sea,
From his coil'd sleeps in the central deeps,
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold
Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate,
With his large calm eyes for the love of me.
And all the mermen under the sea
Would feel their immortality
Die in their hearts for the love of me.
But at night I would wander away, away,
I would fling on each side my low flowing locks; And lightly vault from the throne and play
With the mermen in and out of the rocks; We would run to and fro, and hide and seek
On the broad seawolds i' the crimson shells,
Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea.
But if any came near I would call and shriek,
And adown the steep like a wave I would leap,
From the diamond ledges that jut from the dells:
For I would not be kiss'd by all who list,
Of the bold merry mermen under the sea;
They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me,
In the purple twilights under the sea;
But the king of them all would carry me,
Woo me, and win me, and marry me,
In the branching jaspers under the sea;
Then all the dry pied things that be
In the hueless mosses under the sea,
Would curl round my silver feet silently,
All looking up for the love of me.
And if I should carol aloud, from aloft
All things that are fork'd, and horn'd, and soft
Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea,
All looking down for the love of me.
AIRY, fairy Lilian,
Flitting, fairy Lilian,
When I ask her if she love me,
Claps her tiny hands above me,
Laughing all she can!
She'll not tell me if she love me,
Cruel little Lilian.
When my passion seeks
Pleasance in love-sighs,
She, looking through and through me,
Thoroughly to undo me,
Smiling, never speaks:
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