The Early Poems of Alfred Lord Tennyson Part 26

For you remember, you had set, That morning, on the cas.e.m.e.nt's edge [13]

A long green box of mignonette, And you were leaning from the ledge: And when I raised my eyes, above They met with two so full and bright-- Such eyes! I swear to you, my love, That these have never lost their light. [14]

I loved, and love dispell'd the fear That I should die an early death: For love possess'd the atmosphere, And filled the breast with purer breath.

My mother thought, What ails the boy?

For I was alter'd, and began To move about the house with joy, And with the certain step of man.

I loved the br.i.m.m.i.n.g wave that swam Thro' quiet meadows round the mill, The sleepy pool above the dam, The pool beneath it never still, The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor, The dark round of the dripping wheel, The very air about the door Made misty with the floating meal.

And oft in ramblings on the wold, When April nights begin to blow, And April's crescent glimmer'd cold, I saw the village lights below; I knew your taper far away, And full at heart of trembling hope, From off the wold I came, and lay Upon the freshly-flower'd slope. [15]

The deep brook groan'd beneath the mill; And "by that lamp," I thought "she sits!"

The white chalk-quarry [16] from the hill Gleam'd to the flying moon by fits.

"O that I were beside her now!

O will she answer if I call?

O would she give me vow for vow, Sweet Alice, if I told her all?" [17]

Sometimes I saw you sit and spin; And, in the pauses of the wind, Sometimes I heard you sing within; Sometimes your shadow cross'd the blind.

At last you rose and moved the light, And the long shadow of the chair Flitted across into the night, And all the cas.e.m.e.nt darken'd there.

But when at last I dared to speak, The lanes, you know, were white with may, Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek Flush'd like the coming of the day; [18]

And so it was--half-sly, half-shy, [19]

You would, and would not, little one!

Although I pleaded tenderly, And you and I were all alone.

And slowly was my mother brought To yield consent to my desire: She wish'd me happy, but she thought I might have look'd a little higher; And I was young--too young to wed: "Yet must I love her for your sake; Go fetch your Alice here," she said: Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake.

And down I went to fetch my bride: But, Alice, you were ill at ease; This dress and that by turns you tried, Too fearful that you should not please.

I loved you better for your fears, I knew you could not look but well; And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, I kiss'd away before they fell. [20]

I watch'd the little flutterings, The doubt my mother would not see; She spoke at large of many things, And at the last she spoke of me; And turning look'd upon your face, As near this door you sat apart, And rose, and, with a silent grace Approaching, press'd you heart to heart. [21]

Ah, well--but sing the foolish song I gave you, Alice, on the day [22]

When, arm in arm, we went along, A pensive pair, and you were gay, With bridal flowers--that I may seem, As in the nights of old, to lie Beside the mill-wheel in the stream, While those full chestnuts whisper by. [23]

It is the miller's daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles at [24] her ear: For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle About her dainty, dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me, In sorrow and in rest: And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight. [25]

And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise [26]

Upon her balmy bosom, With her laughter or her sighs, And I would lie so light, so light, [27]

I scarce should be [28] unclasp'd at night.

A trifle, sweet! which true love spells True love interprets--right alone.

His light upon the letter dwells, For all the spirit is his own. [29]

So, if I waste words now, in truth You must blame Love. His early rage Had force to make me rhyme in youth And makes me talk too much in age. [30]

And now those vivid hours are gone, Like mine own life to me thou art, Where Past and Present, wound in one, Do make a garland for the heart: So sing [31] that other song I made, Half anger'd with my happy lot, The day, when in the chestnut shade I found the blue Forget-me-not. [32]

Love that hath us in the net, [33]

Can he pa.s.s, and we forget?

Many suns arise and set.

Many a chance the years beget.

Love the gift is Love the debt.

Even so.

Love is hurt with jar and fret.

Love is made a vague regret.

Eyes with idle tears are wet.

Idle habit links us yet.

What is love? for we forget: Ah, no! no! [34]

Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife, Round my true heart thine arms entwine; My other dearer life in life, Look thro' my very soul with thine!

Untouch'd with any shade of years, May those kind eyes for ever dwell!

They have not shed a many tears, Dear eyes, since first I knew them well.

Yet tears they shed: they had their part Of sorrow: for when time was ripe, The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again, And left a want unknown before; Although the loss that brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more.

With farther lookings on. The kiss, The woven arms, seem but to be Weak symbols of the settled bliss, The comfort, I have found in thee: But that G.o.d bless thee, dear--who wrought Two spirits to one equal mind-- With blessings beyond hope or thought, With blessings which no words can find.

Arise, and let us wander forth, To yon old mill across the wolds; For look, the sunset, south and north, [35]

Winds all the vale in rosy folds, And fires your narrow cas.e.m.e.nt gla.s.s, Touching the sullen pool below: On the chalk-hill the bearded gra.s.s Is dry and dewless. Let us go.

[Footnote 1: 1833. Scarce makes me.]

[Footnote 2: 1833. Darling.]

[Footnote 3: 1833. Own sweet wife.]

[Footnote 4: This stanza was added in 1842.]

[Footnote 5: 1833.

My father's mansion, mounted high Looked down upon the village spire.

I was a long and listless boy, And son and heir unto the squire.]

[Footnote 6: 1833. In these dear walls.]

[Footnote 7: 1833.

I often heard the cooing dove In firry woodlands mourn alone.]

[Footnote 8: 1833. The long mosses.]

[Footnote 9: 1842-1851. Where.]

[Footnote 10: This stanza was added in 1842, taking the place of the following which was excised:--