Lord of the pulse that is lord of her breast,

And dream of her beauty with tender dread,
From the delicate Arab arch of her feet

To the grace that, bright and light as the crest
Of a peacock, sits on her shining head,

And she knows it not: O, if she knew it,

To know her beauty might half undo it.

I know it the one bright thing to save

My yet young life in the wilds of Time,

Perhaps from madness, perhaps from crine,

Perhaps from a selfish grave.

2.

What, if she be fasten'd to this fool lord,

Dare I bid her abide by her word?

Should I love her so well if she

Had given her word to a thing so low?

Shall I love her as well if she

Can break her word were it even for me?

I trust that it is not so.

3.

Catch not my breath, O clamorous heart,

Let not my tongue be a thrall to my eye,

For I must tell her before we part,

I must tell her, or die.

XVII.

Go not, happy day,

From the shining fields,

Go not, happy day,

Till the maiden yields.

Rosy is the West,

Rosy is the South,

Roses are her cheeks,

And a rose her mouth.

When the happy Yes

Falters from her lips,

Pass and blush the news

O'er the blowing ships.

Over blowing seas,

Over seas at rest,

Pass the happy news,

Blush it thro' the West;

Till the red man dance

By his red cedar tree,

And the red man's babe

Leap, beyond the sea.

Blush from West to East,

Blush from East to West,

Till the West is East,

Blush it thro' the West.

Rosy is the West,

Rosy is the South,

Roses are her cheeks,

And a rose her mouth.

XVIII.

1.

I HAVE led her home, my love, my only friend.

There is none like her, none.

And never yet so warmly ran my blood

And sweetly, on and on

Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for end,

Full to the banks, close on the promised good.

None like her, none.

2.

Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pattering talk

Seem'd her light foot along the garden walk,