Among the Millet and Other Poems

John Stuart Mill · en
So my spirit swift with passion
      Finds in every look a sign,
    Catching in some wondrous fashion
      Every mood that governs thine.

    In a moment it will borrow,
      Flashing in a gusty train,
    Laughter and desire and sorrow
      Anger and delight and pain.




A BALLADE OF WAITING.


    No girdle hath weaver or goldsmith wrought
      So rich as the arms of my love can be;
    No gems with a lovelier lustre fraught
      Than her eyes, when they answer me liquidly.
      Dear lady of love, be kind to me
        In days when the waters of hope abate,
      And doubt like a shimmer on sand shall be,
        In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.

    Sweet mouth, that the wear of the world hath taught
      No glitter of wile or traitorie,
    More soft than a cloud in the sunset caught,
      Or the heart of a crimson peony;
      Oh turn not its beauty away from me;
        To kiss it and cling to it early and late
      Shall make sweet minutes of days that flee,
        In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.

    Rich hair that a painter of old had sought
      For the weaving of some soft phantasy,
    Most fair when the streams of it run distraught
      On the firm sweet shoulders yellowly;
      Dear Lady, gather it close to me,
        Weaving a nest for the double freight
      Of cheeks and lips that are one and free,
        For the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.

    _Envoi._

    So time shall be swift till thou mate with me,
      For love is mightiest next to fate,
    And none shall be happier, Love, than we,
      In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.




BEFORE SLEEP.


    Now the creeping nets of sleep
      Stretch about and gather nigh,
    And the midnight dim and deep
      Like a spirit passes by,
    Trailing from her crystal dress
      Dreams and silent frostiness.

    Yet a moment, ere I be
      Tangled in the snares of night,
    All the dreamy heart of me
      To my Lady takes its flight,
    To her chamber where she lies,
      Wrapt in midnight phantasies.

    Over many a glinting street
      And the snow capped roofs of men,
    Towers that tremble with the beat
      Of the midnight bells, and then,
    Where my body may not be,
      Stands my spirit holily.

    Wake not, Lady, wake not soon:
      Through the frosty windows fall
    Broken glimmers of the moon
      Dimly on the floor and wall;
    Wake not, Lady, never care,
      'Tis my spirit kneeling there.

    Let him kneel a moment now,
      For the minutes fly apace;
    Let him see the sleeping brow,
      And the sweetly rounded face:
    He shall tell me soon aright
      How my Lady looks to-night.

    How her tresses out and in
      Fold in many a curly freak,
    Round about the snowy chin
      And the softly tinted cheek,
    Where no sorrows now can weep,
      And the dimples lie asleep.