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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=536528" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Pictures On Enamel</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">When Astraled was lying, like to die<br>Of love's green sickness, all his bed was strown<br>With buds of crocus and anemone,<br>For other flowers yet were barely none,<br>And these he loved. And so it came to pass<br>That, when they deemed he slept, then one by one<br>The watchers left him for the Candlemas;<br>And thus he chanced upon his bed alone<br>When the day broke. You might have deemed he was<br>An image of Hope slain by drear Oblivion.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The chamber where he lay was hushed as sorrow,<br>Which is joy's anteroom. The holy night,<br>In silent expectation of the morrow,<br>Gazed on the moon, as some fair anchorite<br>On her own chastity, until the sight<br>Made her heart ache. But, as the morning broke,<br>Down the dim lobby came Somandolin,<br>With her thick hair around her like a cloak,<br>Even to her feet. I wot she might have been<br>The dawn's own sister. Clad in mystic white,<br>More beautiful than awe, came that fair woman in.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Long while she stood before the dreaming boy,<br>Still as he lay on crimson cushions piled.<br>And when she bent o'er him, her breath did toy<br>With his dank hair. Long while she stood and smiled<br>As smiled Elisha on the widow's child<br>In Shunam. For although her lips were sad<br>As a broken bow, if you had read their meaning<br>You would have learned the sense that smiling had<br>Was less of sorrow than of joy beguiled<br>To grief at the sad world and its revealing,<br>As when the name of Death is whispered to a child.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Doubtless that lady knew the spell to win<br>The life--blood back; for, when she bent her down<br>And laid her cheek to his that was so thin,<br>The shut lips quivered and let fall a moan,<br>As in sweet pain. And next Somandolin<br>Put her white hand upon the sleeper's arm<br>Entangled in his tresses. She could feel<br>The curls crisp back like leaves when they grow warm<br>Before a watchfire. Then she took his chin<br>In her two palms, and bade his eyes unseal<br>Their close--shut lids, and laid her lips upon his own.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Slowly, as in a trance of wonderment,<br>Those blue eyes opened wide, as from the dead<br>His spirit stole. Old memories came and went<br>Like summer lightnings, and a murmur sped<br>To his dull ear, until he deemed it said,<br>In a new tongue which none might heed but he,<br>``Arise and worship, for behold thy bed<br>And all about thee is as holy ground!''<br>And then he cried, ``Behold, dear love, I rise!''<br>And on a sudden, waking from his swound,<br>A countenance of tearful majesty<br>And strange ecstatic love looked in his eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">These things were written for a mystery<br>In the Book of Life, lest lovers in their need<br>Should faint for hunger by the road and die.<br>Thus were they written. Though a god should read,<br>He could not choose but learn a newer creed,<br>Transcending his own knowledge. For anon,<br>The Mass being ended, came the rest with speed,<br>Bearing with them the blest viaticum<br>And holy oils, nor guessed he needed not,<br>Who sought him a long hour. The warder told<br>Erewhile a knight, belike Sir Astraled,<br>With a white lady rode the castle out,<br>And all his harness was of burnished gold,<br>Who, pricking fast towards the rising sun,<br>Was gone beyond the hills upon his battle--steed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Wilfrid+Scawen+Blunt">Wilfrid Scawen Blunt</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=536528" data-title="Pictures On Enamel de Wilfrid Scawen Blunt" data-description="When Astraled was lying, like to die
Of love's green sickness, all his bed was strown
With buds of crocus and anemone,
For other flowers yet were barely none,
And these he loved. And so it came to pass
That, when they deemed he slept, then one by ..."></div>
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