142 MYSTERIES:
THE DREAMING DEATH.
“Then to me so lying awake a vision
Came without sleep over the seas and touched me.”
SWINBURNE, Sapphics.
Y beauty in thy deep pure love
Anchors its homage far above
All lights of heaven. The stars awake,
The very stars bend down to take
From its fresh fragrance for the sake
Of their own cloud-compelling peace.
On earth there lies a silver fleece
Of new-fallen snow, secure from sun
In alleys, leafy every one
This year already with the spring.
The breeze blows freshly, thrushes sing,
And all the woods are burgeoning
With quick new buds; across the snow
The scent of violets to and fro
Wafts at the hour of dawn. Alone
I wait, a figure turned to stone
(Or salt for pain). A week ago
Thine arms had held me, now I know
Far off they clasp the empty air:
Note.—The scene of this poem is a little spinney near the
wooden bridge in Love Lane, Cambridge.