FullReads

With woe, which never sleeps or slept,
I wander now. ‘Tis a vain thought–
But on yon alp, whose snowy head
‘Mid the azure air is islanded,
(We see it o’er the flood of cloud, 540
Which sunrise from its eastern caves
Drives, wrinkling into golden waves,
Hung with its precipices proud,
From that gray stone where first we met)
There now–who knows the dead feel nought?– 545
Should be my grave; for he who yet
Is my soul’s soul, once said: ”Twere sweet
‘Mid stars and lightnings to abide,
And winds and lulling snows, that beat
With their soft flakes the mountain wide, 550
Where weary meteor lamps repose,
And languid storms their pinions close:
And all things strong and bright and pure,
And ever during, aye endure:
Who knows, if one were buried there, 555
But these things might our spirits make,
Amid the all-surrounding air,
Their own eternity partake?’
Then ’twas a wild and playful saying
At which I laughed, or seemed to laugh: 560
They were his words: now heed my praying,
And let them be my epitaph.
Thy memory for a term may be
My monument. Wilt remember me?
I know thou wilt, and canst forgive 565
Whilst in this erring world to live
My soul disdained not, that I thought
Its lying forms were worthy aught
And much less thee.

HELEN:
O speak not so,
But come to me and pour thy woe 570
Into this heart, full though it be,
Ay, overflowing with its own:
I thought that grief had severed me
From all beside who weep and groan;
Its likeness upon earth to be, 575
Its express image; but thou art
More wretched. Sweet! we will not part
Henceforth, if death be not division;
If so, the dead feel no contrition.
But wilt thou hear since last we parted 580
All that has left me broken hearted?

ROSALIND:
Yes, speak. The faintest stars are scarcely shorn
Of their thin beams by that delusive morn
Which sinks again in darkness, like the light
Of early love, soon lost in total night. 585

HELEN:
Alas! Italian winds are mild,
But my bosom is cold–wintry cold–
When the warm air weaves, among the fresh leaves,
Soft music, my poor brain is wild,
And I am weak like a nursling child, 590
Though my soul with grief is gray and old.