Thou, in thy mother's right Descendant of Castalian-chrismed kings -O Princess of the Blood of Song!
Peace; too impetuously have I been winging Toward vaporous heights which beckon and beguile I sink back, saddened to my inmost mind;Even as I list a-dream that mother singing The poesy of sweet tone, and sadden, while Her voice is cast in troubled wake behind The keel of her keen spirit.Thou art enshrined In a too primal innocence for this eye -Intent on such untempered radiancy -
Not to be pained; my clay can scarce endure Ungrieved the effluence near of essences so pure.
Therefore, little, tender maiden, Never be thou overshaden With a mind whose canopy Would shut out the sky from thee;Whose tangled branches intercept Heaven's light:
I will not feed my unpastured heart On thee, green pleasaunce as thou art, To lessen by one flower thy happy daisies white.
The water-rat is earth-hued like the runlet Whereon he swims; and how in me should lurk Thoughts apt to neighbour thine, thou creature sunlit?
If through long fret and irk Thine eyes within their browed recesses were Worn caves where thought lay couchant in its lair;Wert thou a spark among dank leaves, ah ruth!
With age in all thy veins, while all thy heart was youth;Our contact might run smooth.
But life's Eoan dews still moist thy ringed hair;Dian's chill finger-tips Thaw if at night they happen on thy lips;The flying fringes of the sun's cloak frush The fragile leaves which on those warm lips blush;And joy only lurks retired In the dim gloaming of thine irid.
Then since my love drags this poor shadow, me, And one without the other may not be, From both I guard thee free.
It still is much, yes, it is much, Only--my dream!--to love my love of thee;And it is much, yes, it is much, In hands which thou hast touched to feel thy touch In voices which have mingled with thine own To hear a double tone.