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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=360799" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Portrait</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">This is her picture as she was:<br> It seems a thing to wonder on,<br> As though mine image in the glass<br> Should tarry when myself am gone.<br> I gaze until she seems to stir,--<br> Until mine eyes almost aver<br> That now, even now, the sweet lips part<br> To breathe the words of the sweet heart:--<br> And yet the earth is over her.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Alas! even such the thin-drawn ray<br> That makes the prison-depths more rude,--<br> The drip of water night and day<br> Giving a tongue to solitude.<br> Yet only this, of love's whole prize,<br> Remains; save what in mournful guise<br> Takes counsel with my soul alone,--<br> Save what is secret and unknown,<br> Below the earth, above the skies.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> In painting her I shrin'd her face<br> Mid mystic trees, where light falls in<br> Hardly at all; a covert place<br> Where you might think to find a din<br> Of doubtful talk, and a live flame<br> Wandering, and many a shape whose name<br> Not itself knoweth, and old dew,<br> And your own footsteps meeting you,<br> And all things going as they came.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> A deep dim wood; and there she stands<br> As in that wood that day: for so<br> Was the still movement of her hands<br> And such the pure line's gracious flow.<br> And passing fair the type must seem,<br> Unknown the presence and the dream.<br> 'Tis she: though of herself, alas!<br> Less than her shadow on the grass<br> Or than her image in the stream.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> That day we met there, I and she<br> One with the other all alone;<br> And we were blithe; yet memory<br> Saddens those hours, as when the moon<br> Looks upon daylight. And with her<br> I stoop'd to drink the spring-water,<br> Athirst where other waters sprang;<br> And where the echo is, she sang,--<br> My soul another echo there.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But when that hour my soul won strength<br> For words whose silence wastes and kills,<br> Dull raindrops smote us, and at length<br> Thunder'd the heat within the hills.<br> That eve I spoke those words again<br> Beside the pelted window-pane;<br> And there she hearken'd what I said,<br> With under-glances that survey'd<br> The empty pastures blind with rain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Next day the memories of these things,<br> Like leaves through which a bird has flown,<br> Still vibrated with Love's warm wings;<br> Till I must make them all my own<br> And paint this picture. So, 'twixt ease<br> Of talk and sweet long silences,<br> She stood among the plants in bloom<br> At windows of a summer room,<br> To feign the shadow of the trees.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> And as I wrought, while all above<br> And all around was fragrant air,<br> In the sick burthen of my love<br> It seem'd each sun-thrill'd blossom there<br> Beat like a heart among the leaves.<br> O heart that never beats nor heaves,<br> In that one darkness lying still,<br> What now to thee my love's great will<br> Or the fine web the sunshine weaves?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> For now doth daylight disavow<br> Those days,--nought left to see or hear.<br> Only in solemn whispers now<br> At night-time these things reach mine ear;<br> When the leaf-shadows at a breath<br> Shrink in the road, and all the heath,<br> Forest and water, far and wide,<br> In limpid starlight glorified,<br> Lie like the mystery of death.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Last night at last I could have slept,<br> And yet delay'd my sleep till dawn,<br> Still wandering. Then it was I wept:<br> For unawares I came upon<br> Those glades where once she walk'd with me:<br> And as I stood there suddenly,<br> All wan with traversing the night,<br> Upon the desolate verge of light<br> Yearn'd loud the iron-bosom'd sea.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Even so, where Heaven holds breath and hears<br> The beating heart of Love's own breast,--<br> Where round the secret of all spheres<br> All angels lay their wings to rest,--<br> How shall my soul stand rapt and aw'd,<br> When, by the new birth borne abroad<br> Throughout the music of the suns,<br> It enters in her soul at once<br> And knows the silence there for God!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Here with her face doth memory sit<br> Meanwhile, and wait the day's decline,<br> Till other eyes shall look from it,<br> Eyes of the spirit's Palestine,<br> Even than the old gaze tenderer:<br> While hopes and aims long lost with her<br> Stand round her image side by side,<br> Like tombs of pilgrims that have died<br> About the Holy Sepulchre.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Dante+Gabriel+Rossetti">Dante Gabriel Rossetti</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=360799" data-title="The Portrait de Dante Gabriel Rossetti" data-description="This is her picture as she was:
 It seems a thing to wonder on,
 As though mine image in the glass
 Should tarry when myself am gone.
 I gaze until she seems to stir,--
 Until mine eyes almost aver
 That now, even now, the sweet lips part
 To brea..."></div>
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