| |
| METHOUGHT I met a Lady yester even; | |
| A passionless grief, that had nor tear nor wail, | |
| Sat on her pure proud face, that gleam’d to Heaven | |
| White as a moonlit sail. | |
| |
| She spake: ‘On this pale brow are looks of youth, | 5 |
| Yet angels listening on the argent floor | |
| Know that these lips have been proclaiming truth | |
| Nine hundred years and more; | |
| |
| ‘And Isis knows what time-grey towers rear’d up, | |
| Gardens and groves and cloister’d halls are mine; | 10 |
| When quaff my sons from many a myrrhine cup | |
| Draughts of ambrosial wine. | |
| |
| ‘He knows how night by night my lamps are lit, | |
| How day by day my bells are ringing clear,— | |
| Mother of ancient lore and Attic wit | 15 |
| And discipline severe. | |
| |
| ‘And I have led my children on steep mountains | |
| By fine attraction of my spirit brought | |
| Up to the dark inexplicable fountains | |
| That are the springs of thought: | 20 |
| |
| ‘Led them, where on the old poetic shore | |
| The flowers that change not with the changing moon | |
| Breathe round young hearts, as breathes the sycamore | |
| About the bees in June. | |
| |
| ‘And I will bear them as on eagle’s wings, | 25 |
| To leave them bow’d before the sapphire Throne, | |
| High o’er the haunts where dying Pleasure sings | |
| With sweet and swan-like tone. | |
| |
| ‘And I will lead the age’s great expansions, | |
| Progressive circles t’ward thought’s Sabbath rest, | 30 |
| And point beyond them to the many mansions | |
| Where Christ is with the blest. | |
| |
