All contemplation of all forms, did pause To worship mine own image, laved in light, The centre of the splendours, all unworthy Of such a shrine--mine image in her eyes, By diminution made most glorious, Moved with their motions, as those eyes were moved With motions of the soul, as my heart beat Twice to the melody of hers. Her face Was starry-fair, not pale, tenderly flush'd As 'twere with dawn. She was dark-hair'd, dark-eyed; Oh, such dark eyes! A single glance of them Will govern a whole life from birth to death, Careless of all things else, led on with light In trances and in visions: look at them, You lose yourself in utter ignorance, You cannot find their depth; for they go back, And farther back, and still withdraw themselves Quite into the deep soul, that evermore, Fresh springing from her fountains in the brain, Still pouring thro', floods with redundant light Her narrow portals. Trust me, long ago I should have died, if it were possible To die in gazing on that perfectness Which I do bear within me; I had died But from my farthest lapse, my latest ebb, Thine image, like a charm of light and strength Upon the waters, pushed me back again On these deserted sands of barren life. Tho' from the deep vault, where the heart of hope Fell into dust, and crumbled in the dark-- Forgetting who to render beautiful Her countenance with quick and healthful blood-- Thou didst not sway me upward, could I perish With such a costly casket in the grasp Of memory? He, that saith it, hath o'erstepp'd The slippery footing of his narrow wit, And fall'n away from judgment. Thou art light, To which my spirit leaneth all her flowers, And length of days, and immortality Of thought, and freshness ever self-renew'd. For Time and Grief abode too long with Life, And like all other friends i' the world, at last They grew aweary of her fellowship: So Time and Grief did beckon unto Death, And Death drew nigh and beat the doors of Life; But thou didst sit alone in the inner house, A wakeful port'ress and didst parle with Death, 'This is a charmed dwelling which I hold'; So Death gave back, and would no further come. Yet is my life nor in the present time, Nor in the present place. To me alone, Pushed from his chair of regal heritage, The Present is the vassal of the Past: So that, in that I _have_ lived, do I live, And cannot die, and am, in having been, A portion of the pleasant yesterday, Thrust forward on to-day and out of place; A body journeying onward, sick with toil, The lithe limbs bow'd as with a heavy weight And all the senses weaken'd in all save that Which, long ago, they had glean'd and garner'd up Into the granaries of memory-- The clear brow, bulwark of the precious brain, Now seam'd and chink'd with years--and all the while The light soul twines and mingles with the growths