  O Soul of mine, look out and see My bride, my bride that is to be!— Reach out with mad, impatient hands, And draw aside futurity As one might draw a veil aside— And so unveil her where she stands Madonna-like and glorified— The queen of undiscovered lands Of love, to where she beckons me— My bride, my bride that is to be. The shadow of a willow-tree That wavers on a garden-wall In summer-time may never fall In attitude as gracefully As my fair bride that is to be;— Nor ever Autumn’s leaves of brown As lightly flutter to the lawn As fall her fairy-feet upon The path of love she loiters down.— O’er drops of dew she walks, and yet Not one may stain her sandal wet— Ay, she might dance upon the way Nor crush a single drop to spray, So airy-like she seems to me,— My bride, my bride that is to be. I know not if her eyes are light As summer skies or dark as night,— I only know that they are dim With mystery: In vain I peer To make their hidden meaning clear. While o’er their surface, like a tear That ripples to the silken brim, A look of longing seems to swim All worn and weary-like to me; And then, as suddenly, my sight Is blinded with a smile so bright, Through folded lids I still may see My bride, my bride that is to be. Her face is like a night of June Upon whose brow the crescent-moon Hangs pendent in a diadem Of stars, with envy lighting them.— And, like a wild cascade, her hair Floods neck and shoulder, arm and wrist, Till only through a gleaming mist I seem to see a Siren there, With lips of love and melody And open arms and heaving breast Wherein I fling myself to rest, The while my heart cries hopelessly For my fair bride that is to be. ... Nay, foolish heart and blinded eyes! My bride hath need of no disguise.— But, rather, let her come to me In such a form as bent above My pillow when, in infancy, I knew not anything but love.— O let her come from out the lands Of Womanhood—not fairy isles,— And let her come with Woman’s hands And Woman’s eyes of tears and smiles,— With Woman’s hopefulness and grace Of patience lighting up her face: And let her diadem be wrought Of kindly deed and prayerful thought, That ever over all distress May beam the light of cheerfulness.— And let her feet be brave to fare The labyrinths of doubt and care, That, following, my own may find The path to Heaven God designed.— O let her come like this to me— |
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