@3Founts@1 'Twas my last waking thought, how it could be, That thou, sweet friend, such anguish shouldst endure; When straight from Dreamland came a Dwarf, and he Could tell the cause, forsooth, and knew the cure. Methought he fronted me with peering look Fix'd on my heart; and read aloud in game The loves and griefs therein, as from a book; And uttered praise like one who wished to blame. In every heart (quoth he) since Adam's sin Two Founts there are, of suffering and of cheer! That to let forth, and this to keep within! But she, whose aspect I find imaged here, Of Pleasure only will to all dispense, That Fount alone unlock, by no distress Choked or turned inward, but still issue thence Unconqueerd cheer, persistent loveliness. As on the driving cloud the shiny bow, That gracious thing made up of tears and light, Mid the wild rack and rain that slants below Stands smiling forth, unmoved and freshly bright; -- As though the spirits of all lovely flowers, Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown, Or ere they sank to earth in vernal showers, Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down. Ev'n so, Eliza! on that face of thine, On that benignant face, whose look alone (The soul's translucence thro' her crystal shrine!) Has power to soothe all anguish but thine own, A beauty hovers still, and ne'er takes wing, But with a silent charm compels the stern And tort'ring Genius of the bitter spring, To shrink aback, and cower upon his urn. Who then needs wonder, if (no outlet found In passion, spleen, or strife) the fount of pain O'erflowing beats against its lovely mound, And in wild flashes shoots from heart to brain? Sleep, and the Dwarf with that unsteady gleam On his raised lip, that aped a critic smile, Had passed: yet I, my sad thoughts to beguile, Lay weaving on the tissue of my dream; Till audibly at length I cried, as though Thou had'st indeed been present to my eyes, O sweet, sweet sufferer; if the case be so, I pray thee, be less good, less sweet, less wise! In every look a barbed arrow send, On those soft lips let scorn and anger live! Do any thing, rather than thus, sweet friend! Hoard for thyself the pain, thou wilt not give! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...INFERENTIAL by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON A VALEDICTION: FORBIDDING MOURNING by JOHN DONNE WHAT MY LOVER SAID by HOMER GREENE THE CAUTIOUS HOUSEHOLDER by ANAXILAS REMARKS TO THE BACK OF A PEW by WILLIAM ROSE BENET THE INDIAN by ARTHUR STANLEY BOURINOT A VALEDICTION by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 11 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |