THE GLORIOUS LADY.

“La gloriosa donna della mia mente.” Dante.

I SEE You in the time that’s fled, Long dead; I see you in the years to be After me; And for all solace I am given, Night or day, To dream or think of you in heaven Far away. I have the colour of your hair Everywhere; I have your beauty all by heart, Cannot part From aught of you—I love you so— Though I try, I know I shall not find you though Till I die. When I have darkened all the day, Put away The world and the world’s sights and sweets —Mere deceits, The blinding blaze of the false lights That arise Between my spirit and the heights And the skies— When I have turned from the pale face, Sickly grace, Faint hair and hue of heart, thin smiles That cover wiles Of looks that fail and lips that chill, —All the drear And pallid cheats of love that kill The heart here— Then do I dream—oh far away— Another day; Another light where truer hues, Reds and blues, Live as in living eyes and cheeks; Where love lives, And all my spirit loves and seeks Love gives. Nay, your true heart is not this pale Thing to fail Short of such promised love as dies In such eyes: I build up all the world anew,— Nay, above, I make another world—where You Build up Love; Behold your eyes are in the stead Of these dead,— Pure seas of looks, with many a shore Of worlds more; Behold, instead of these poor moulds, These mere casts In some first clay—no stuff that holds Love that lasts— Why! life—that love; and then its fresh Robe of flesh, With—O what chords of sense that thrill With love’s will, Unchecked by death or weariness, Those dull foes Of every feeling, more or less, The world knows! In place of all the glassy cheats— Your true sweets, —Of all the lives with which Death plays, All the days Left dim and void when Hope’s own sun Dare not shine— In place of all and every one, You divine! I know the splendour that you were— —You shall be; I see that nothing is so fair As you there; I know that you—the thing I crave— Men shall see Again, when I am in the grave, —After me. O, whose shall be the barren years? Whose the tears? God, who of all this world of ours Gathers flowers —Taketh and maketh heaven, and faileth Not at all, Maketh a heaven that prevaileth Out of all— Shall God have care for this and this —Flowers that miss The love that gathers and that saves? For these graves, Shall love to be, or love that’s past, Safe above, Be less than perfected at last, Less than Love? O, who shall have the barren years? Who the tears? You, World that gave me a false kiss, Shall have this: But I—I know that Love hath been, And shall be Again, when I am no more seen, —After me.

I SEE You with the face they paint For some saint Born and saved in some sublime Olden time, Crowned with the gorgeous golden-waved Aureole; Just such a saint as should have saved My own soul. Yes; for you have the human grace In your face Painted upon the panel there, And what hair! ‘Fra’—who was he? I forget— Who could paint Such a woman wholly, and yet Such a saint? From the dim cathedral height Falls the light; I could think it for a while Christ’s smile From the great window-scene above Strangely shed Toward you, resting like Christ’s love On your head. O the splendid purple niche Deep and rich, Stained of the colour of your soul Strong and whole, Full of the prevalence of prayers And piteous plaint You made for men and sins all theirs —You a saint! The niche a little narrow: well, As the cell Your world, your body—all things seen— Must have been About the soul that day by day Groped and felt To God’s own house and found the way As you knelt: In an attitude of prayer O how fair! All the body crouched, constrained As if pained With the spirit’s inward groan To entreat For a sin you could not own, O how sweet! Hands God making must have praised; Clasped and raised Holy mediæval way Used to pray; Sky all wrapped about your head Blue and sweet, Earth all golden from the tread Of your feet. God, who of all this world of ours Gathers flowers, Gathered you in the old sublime Flower time: If God had left some flowers like you— Who can tell?— He might have had yet one or two Flowers that fell. O then there were great sins of course; Men were worse Some ways no doubt; at any rate Men were great: We cannot bear their mail, much less Lose or win Their heavens, through their great holiness Or great sin. There were high things for men to see, Do, or be; Fair struggles after every throne: And to atone Fair crowns and kingdoms for the best; All men strove, And, loss or gain, for each man’s rest There was love. And men and women bore their part Heart to heart, For oh! the women and the men Loved then; And love from love you could not break, Half to save; If one sinned, for the other’s sake God forgave. Would thou wert yet, thou great and old Time of gold! Wert thou with me, or could I flee Back to thee, God might have had one other flower Nigh to fall, And I known love at least one hour —Once for all. O who shall have the barren years? Who the tears? One with false bosom and cold kiss May have this: But somewhere, unless love forget His old way, There shall be something better yet —Ay, some day.