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XL.

O, might life fade away and gently cease
While the heart vibrates like a golden string,
Ending in music and forgetful peace,

While untried hope is full of sinewy spring

As a new bow, ere yet by slow degrees

Earth's dust hath clotted round the soul's fresh wing And made us flutter, sink, and crawl, and die, Heart-broken by our instinct for the sky!

XLI.

But Earth is Earth, and beautiful is she

Our mother, from whose fertile breast we draw

Half of our nature: it is destiny

That we flee to her from the gloomy maw

Of the unknown; for we can never see

More than a fragment of the spirit's law,
And clasp her hand most closely when we might
Be weaned at once, and feed on nectarous light.

XLII.

Sorrow, there seemeth more of thee in life
Than we can bear and live, and yet we bear;
And thy endurance is the desperate knife

Wherewith the cable of our dreams we share,
To steer out boldly through the monstrous strife
Of surging action, and learn how to dare,
And drive right onward through the grasping seas
To Will and Power, which give the soul true ease.

XLIII.

Yet let us dream while we are anchored yet,
If so some portion of the destined ache
That haunts the spirit here we may forget:
Who never dreamed is never well-awake;

The stars of life one after other set,

And, while we can with faith, 't is good to make The world seem what it was when first we turned, Saw its broad stretch, and for its triumphs burned.

XLIV.

Could Margaret have seen the shaft of woe

Which fate even now was drawing to the head, Even in the very twanging of the bow,

Whose aim must strike her soaring gladness dead,
She would have shut her eyes upon the blow,
And all her soul upon her lover shed,

Though life went with it, so the heart is fain
To gamble present bliss for future pain.

XLV.

No matter, woe is short and life is long:

We prate too much of this world's flitting grief, Thoughtless of the unimaginable throng

Of after-lives that bring the soul relief

And countless chances more like oak-trees strong, We shed our frail lives from us, leaf by leaf, And each new death but brings the spirit more Broad worlds to win and beauty to adore.

XLVI.

So, Margaret, let thy heart leap up to hear,

Each night, the rustle of the leaves which tells That the long dreamed-of ecstasy is near,

That made the day seem empty: O, what swells
Of brightly mingled, sudden hope and fear
Hast thou, awaiting him since curfew bells

Have died away, and Hesper in the west
Trembled as doth the joy within thy breast!

XLVII.

How should she dream of ill? the heart filled quite
With sunshine, like the shepherd's-clock at noon,
Closes its leaves around its warm delight;
Whate'er in life is harsh or out of tune

Is all shut out, no boding shade of blight
Can pierce the opiate ether of its swoon:
Love is but blind as thoughtful justice is,
But nought can be so wanton-blind as bliss.

XLVIII.

When Mordred came, all soul she seemed to be,

And quite broke through the clay's entangling mesh,

His spirit with her eyes she seemed to see,
And feel its motion in her very flesh;
And, when he went, his radiant memory
Robed all her fantasies with glory fresh,

As if an angel, quitting her awhile,

Left round her heart the halo of his smile.

XLIX.

Bright passion of young hearts, like the huge burst
Of some grand symphony all unaware
Storming the soul, majestic as the first

Sight of the rousing ocean, poor

And barren of all life as spots accurst,

and bare,

Thou mak❜st all other joys, once deemed most rare!

So Margaret thought when Mordred went away

And made day night, or came and made night day.

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