Suspense
Did I hear the hinges groan?
Was not that the latchet's shake?
No, it was the zephyr's moan
Through the bowing poplar brake.
Put on thy best, thou verdant, leafy glade,
To welcome my beloved to her home;
Ye branches, lend your sympathetic shade
To shroud her 'neath your dark mysterious dome.
And ye, ye merry breezes, freely play
In wanton sport upon her rosy cheeks,
As, scarcely burdening the favoured way,
With dainty steps Love's very home she seeks.
Listen! What was that I heard
Rustling sharply through the sedge?
— Nay, 'twas but a timid bird,
Rising startled from the hedge.
Quench, day, thy torch! and thou congenial night,
Thy grateful silence on the scene impose,
Around us shed thine own empurpled light,
And 'neath clandestine boughs our loves enclose.
For Love can tolerate no lurking ear,
She shuns th' immodest, staring eye of day,
And only Hesperus may venture near,
Her confidential triflings to survey.
Did I hear the murmuring sound
Of a whisper soft and low?
— 'Twas the swan who, sailing round,
Cleaves the pool with breast of snow.
About mine ears harmonious measures throb,
The merry water dashes down the ghylls,
The western breezes through the flowers sob,
And all creation happiness distills.
The purple grape, the golden peach invite,
Saucily peeping from their sheltering leaves:
The kissing air, with spicy odours light,
The passion of my glowing cheek receives.
Did I hear some echoing foot
Crackling o'er the shady walk?
— Nay, 'twas but a falling fruit,
All too heavy for its stalk.
Now gently closes Day's effulgent eye
In painless death, and all its colours fade,
Rejoicing in the soft and kindly shade.
The moon in silence throws her silvery ray,
Dissolving masses from the world exhale,
Beauty its jealous girdle casts away,
And loveliness appears without a veil.
Something white before me skimmed:
Was it not a silken train?
— Nay, 'twas but yon pillars limned
On the dark yew hedge again.
Oh, yearning, self-deceiving heart, forbear
Thy warmth on visionary forms to vent;
The arm which would embrace her is not there,
No phantom fortune can this soul content.
Oh! bring her living self in very deed,
Let me but feel her little fairy hand;
Even to touch her mantle's hem I plead,
So will my dream to real life expand.
As the heavens intervene.
Unexpected gifts to send,
So did she approach unseen
And with kisses wake her friend.
Was not that the latchet's shake?
No, it was the zephyr's moan
Through the bowing poplar brake.
Put on thy best, thou verdant, leafy glade,
To welcome my beloved to her home;
Ye branches, lend your sympathetic shade
To shroud her 'neath your dark mysterious dome.
And ye, ye merry breezes, freely play
In wanton sport upon her rosy cheeks,
As, scarcely burdening the favoured way,
With dainty steps Love's very home she seeks.
Listen! What was that I heard
Rustling sharply through the sedge?
— Nay, 'twas but a timid bird,
Rising startled from the hedge.
Quench, day, thy torch! and thou congenial night,
Thy grateful silence on the scene impose,
Around us shed thine own empurpled light,
And 'neath clandestine boughs our loves enclose.
For Love can tolerate no lurking ear,
She shuns th' immodest, staring eye of day,
And only Hesperus may venture near,
Her confidential triflings to survey.
Did I hear the murmuring sound
Of a whisper soft and low?
— 'Twas the swan who, sailing round,
Cleaves the pool with breast of snow.
About mine ears harmonious measures throb,
The merry water dashes down the ghylls,
The western breezes through the flowers sob,
And all creation happiness distills.
The purple grape, the golden peach invite,
Saucily peeping from their sheltering leaves:
The kissing air, with spicy odours light,
The passion of my glowing cheek receives.
Did I hear some echoing foot
Crackling o'er the shady walk?
— Nay, 'twas but a falling fruit,
All too heavy for its stalk.
Now gently closes Day's effulgent eye
In painless death, and all its colours fade,
Rejoicing in the soft and kindly shade.
The moon in silence throws her silvery ray,
Dissolving masses from the world exhale,
Beauty its jealous girdle casts away,
And loveliness appears without a veil.
Something white before me skimmed:
Was it not a silken train?
— Nay, 'twas but yon pillars limned
On the dark yew hedge again.
Oh, yearning, self-deceiving heart, forbear
Thy warmth on visionary forms to vent;
The arm which would embrace her is not there,
No phantom fortune can this soul content.
Oh! bring her living self in very deed,
Let me but feel her little fairy hand;
Even to touch her mantle's hem I plead,
So will my dream to real life expand.
As the heavens intervene.
Unexpected gifts to send,
So did she approach unseen
And with kisses wake her friend.
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