sway, And good must grow as grew the blessed day. No more: great Love his essence had endued With Pedro’s form, and, entering, subdued The soul of Lisa, fervid and intense, Proud in its choice of proud obedience To hardship glorified by perfect reverence.

p. 15

Sweet Lisa homeward carried that dire guest, And in her chamber, through the hours of rest, The darkness was alight for her with sheen Of arms, and plumèd helm; and bright between Their commoner gloss, like the pure living spring ’Twixt porphyry lips, or living bird’s bright wing ’Twixt golden wires, the glances of the king p. 16Flashed on her soul, and waked vibrations there Of known delights love-mixed to new and rare: The impalpable dream was turned to breathing flesh, Chill thought of summer to the warm close mesh Of sunbeams held between the citron-leaves, Clothing her life of life. Oh! she believes That she could be content if he but knew (Her poor small self could claim no other due) How Lisa’s lowly love had highest reach Of wingèd passion, whereto wingèd speech Would be scorched remnants left by mounting flame. Though, had she such lame message, were it blame To tell what greatness dwelt in her, what rank She held in loving? Modest maidens shrank From telling love that fed on selfish hope; p. 17But love, as hopeless as the shattering song, Wailed for loved beings who have joined the throng Of mighty dead ones. . . . Nay, but she was weak, Knew only prayers and ballads, could not speak With eloquence, save what dumb creatures have, That with small cries and touches small boons crave.

p. 16

p. 17

She watched all day that she might see him pass With knights and ladies; but she said, “Alas! Though he should see me, it were all as one He saw a pigeon sitting on the stone Of wall or balcony: some colored spot His eye just sees, his mind regardeth not. I have no music-touch that could bring nigh My love to his soul’s hearing. I shall die, p. 18And he will never know who Lisa was,— The trader’s child, whose soaring spirit rose As hedge-born aloe-flowers that rarest years disclose.

p. 18

 

“For were I now a fair deep-breasted queen A-horseback, with blonde hair, and tunic green, Gold-bordered, like Costanza, I should need No change within to make me queenly there: For they the royal-hearted women are Who nobly love the noblest, yet have grace; For needy suffering lives in lowliest place, Carrying a 

 Prev. P 4/13 next