The deep bliss
Of that unutterable light has made
The edges of that cloud .
Of that unutterable light has made
The edges of that cloud .
Shelley
Her coming made him better, and they stayed
Together at my father's--for I played,
As I remember, with the lady's shawl--
I might be six years old--but after all _605
She left him. '. . . 'Why, her heart must have been tough:
How did it end? ' 'And was not this enough?
They met--they parted. '--'Child, is there no more? '
'Something within that interval which bore
The stamp of WHY they parted, HOW they met: _610
Yet if thine aged eyes disdain to wet
Those wrinkled cheeks with youth's remembered tears,
Ask me no more, but let the silent years
Be closed and cered over their memory
As yon mute marble where their corpses lie. ' _615
I urged and questioned still, she told me how
All happened--but the cold world shall not know.
CANCELLED FRAGMENTS OF JULIAN AND MADDALO.
'What think you the dead are? ' 'Why, dust and clay,
What should they be? ' ''Tis the last hour of day.
Look on the west, how beautiful it is _620
Vaulted with radiant vapours!
The deep bliss
Of that unutterable light has made
The edges of that cloud . . . fade
Into a hue, like some harmonious thought,
Wasting itself on that which it had wrought, _625
Till it dies . . . and . . . between
The light hues of the tender, pure, serene,
And infinite tranquillity of heaven.
Ay, beautiful! but when not. . . '
. .
