These are not annual blooms, that die, then rise
Again into a beautiful existence;[1]
They may live long, and be the life of life,
But, like the rose, when they are once destroyed
They perish utterly. And like that tree,
How sweet a memory too remains! though dead
The green leaves, and decayed the stem, yet still
The spirit of fragrance lingers, loth to leave
Its dear abode. Just so love haunts the heart,
Though withered, and to be revived no more.
Oh, nothing has the memory of love!—
It was a summer twilight, crimson lights
Played o'er the bridal bowers of the west,
And in the grey horizon the white moon
Was faintly visible, just where the sky
Met the green rolling of the shadowy sea.
Upon a little hill, whose broken ridge
Was covered with the golden furze, and heath
Gay with its small pink blossoms, in a shade
Formed of thick hazels and the graceful sweep
Of the ash boughs, an old beach trunk the seat,
With a sweet canopy of honeysuckle
Mixed with the wild briar-roses, Edward sat,
Happy, for Marion lean'd upon his bosom
In the deep fondness of the parting hour;
One of those partings memory will keep
Among its precious things. The setting sun
Shed such rich colour o'er the cheek, which press'd
Closer and closer, like a rose, that sought
A shelter next his heart; the radiant eyes,
Glorious as though the sky's own light were there,
Yet timid, blue, and tender as the dove's;
The soft arm thrown around his neck; the hair
Falling in such profusion o'er a face
That nestled like a bird upon his breast;
Murmurs, the very breath of happiness;
Low and delighted sighs, and lengthened looks,
As life were looking words inaudible,
Yet full of music; whispers such as are
What love should ever speak in, soft yet deep,
As jealous even that the air should share
- ↑ The Vow if the Peacock version has 'into another summer world.' here.
