THE RING.——TO GEORGE ELIOT.
As she, thy Dorothea, loved of thee, Refused to wear in careless ornament The amethysts and emeralds that lent Their charm to other women;—even as she, Turning one day by chance the golden key Of their close casket, started as they sent Swift, glowing rays to greet her, and then bent To lift them in her white hands lovingly;— * * * * * O great of heart, so calmly dost thou stand In the proud splendor of thy fame, and bring Thy glorious gifts to all the listening land,— Thou canst not greatly care what I may sing! Yet since I hold to thee my amethyst ring, Take it one little moment in thy hand!
THE BOOK.——To D.M.R.
Dear, if this little book of thine and mine Could bring me fame as glorious and rare As that whose splendid laurels shine so fair For Dorothea,——it were less divine A gift than this most priceless love of thine. Since, then, that came to me, why now despair Of laurel? though I may not hope to wear Laurel or myrtle as the precious sign Of any proud desert. Yet if I might Not find that love could keep its holy tryst With fame, how quickly would I yield the bright New dream, to keep my ring of amethyst: The memory of that day when love first kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write!
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TO THE CRITIC.
I know full well I cannot pour for you The nectar of the gods;—no epic wine Is this I bring, to tempt you with its fine Poetic flavor, as of grapes that grew In the young vineyards when the world was new, And only poets wrote;—a slender vine You scarce will care for, bore these grapes of mine, From which frail hands have crushed the purple dew. Yet if from what I bring you, there is missed The lyric loveliness of some who write, The passionate fervor and the keen delight Of eloquent fire in some to whom you list,— Think it may be, not that the gift is slight, But that my cup is rimmed with amethyst!
NARCISSUS.
TO THE READER.
If haply in these pages you should read Aught that seems true to human nature, true To heavenly instincts;—if they speak to you Of love, of sorrow, faith without a creed, Of doubt, of hope, of longing,—or indeed Of any pain or joy the poet knew A heart could feel,—think not to find a clue To his own heart—its gladness or its need. From a deep spring with tangled weeds o’ergrown The poet parts the leaves; if they who pass, Bending to look down through the tall wild grass, By winds of heaven faintly overblown, Should start to see there, dimly in a glass, Some face,——’tis not the poet’s, but their own!
PROEM.
I wonder, little book, if after all I greatly care whether with praise or blame Men turn your leaves. Once, the fair hope of fame Had made me wonder what fate should befall My first faint singing; now I cannot call The singing mine; I gave it him who came To place my joy where no harsh touch can maim Its safe, secure, bright beauty. Like a wall Of strong defence to me this blessedness: That of his love I am so proudly sure, Though the whole world should bend to my success, I think he could not love me any more! And though the whole world say my book is poor, I know he will not love me any less!
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