Into the dull ear of her drowsy lord A vague suspicion of some secret word, Borne by the bird,--love's wingéd messenger,-- To her who lies beside him; even her, His wife, whom still he loves; whom Accolon Thus sings of where the woods of Gore grow wan:-- "The thought of thy white coming, like a song Breathed soft of lovely lips and lute-like tongue, Sways all my bosom with a sweet unrest; Makes wild my heart that oft thy heart hath pressed.-- Come! press it once again, for it is strong To bear that weight which never yet distressed. "O come! and straight the woodland is stormed through With wilder wings, and brighter with bright dew: And every flow'r, where thy fair feet have passed, Puts forth a fairer blossom than the last, Thrilled of thine eyes, those arsenals of blue, Wherein the arrows of all love are cast. "O Love, she comes! O Love, I feel her breath, Like the soft South, that idly wandereth Through musical leaves of laughing laziness, Page on before her, how sweet,--none can guess: Sighing, 'She comes! thy heart's dear life and death; In whom is all thy bliss and thy distress.' "She comes! she comes! and all my mind doth rave For words to tell her how she doth enslave My soul with beauty: then o'erwhelm with love That loveliness, no words can tell whereof; Words, words, like roses, every path to pave, Each path to strew, and no word sweet enough! "She comes!--Thro' me a passion--as the moon Works wonder in the sea--through me doth swoon Ungovernable glory; and her soul Seems blent with mine; and now, to some bright goal, Compels me, throbbing like a tender tune, Exhausting all my efforts of control. "She comes! ah, God! ye little stars that grace The fragmentary skies, and scatter space, Brighter her steps that golden all my gloom! Ah, wood-indulging, violet-vague perfume, Sweeter the presence of her wild-flower face, That fragrance-fills my life, and stars with bloom! "Oh, boundless exultation of the blood! That now compels me to some higher mood, Diviner sense of something that outsoars The Earth--her kiss! that all love's splendor pours Into me; all delicious womanhood, So all the heart that hesitates--adores. "Sweet, my soul's victor! heart's triumphant Sweet! Within thy bosom Love hath raised his seat; There he sits crowned; and, from thy eyes and hair, Shoots his soft arrows,--as the moonbeams fair,-- That long have laid me supine at thy feet, And changed my clay to ardent fire and air.