No More Learning

Blame me not. I would not squander life in grief--I am abstemious.
I but nurse my spirit's falcon that its wing may soar again.
There's no room for tears of weakness in the blind eyes of a Phemius:
Into work the poet kneads them, and he does not die _till then_.


CONCLUSION.

I.

Bertram finished the last pages, while along the silence ever
Still in hot and heavy splashes fell the tears on every leaf.
Having ended, he leans backward in his chair, with lips that quiver
From the deep unspoken, ay, and deep unwritten thoughts of grief.

II.

Soh! how still the lady standeth! 'T is a dream--a dream of mercies!
'Twixt the purple lattice-curtains how she standeth still and pale!
'T is a vision, sure, of mercies, sent to soften his self curses,
Sent to sweep a patient quiet o'er the tossing of his wail.

III.
"Eyes," he said, "now throbbing through me! are ye eyes that did undo
me?
Shining eyes, like antique jewels set in Parian statue-stone!
Underneath that calm white forehead are ye ever burning torrid
O'er the desolate sand-desert of my heart and life undone? "

IV.

With a murmurous stir uncertain, in the air the purple curtain
Swelleth in and swelleth out around her motionless pale brows,
While the gliding of the river sends a rippling noise for ever
Through the open casement whitened by the moonlight's slant repose.

V.

Said he--"Vision of a lady! stand there silent, stand there steady!
Now I see it plainly, plainly now I cannot hope or doubt--
There, the brows of mild repression--there, the lips of silent passion,
Curved like an archer's bow to send the bitter arrows out. "

VI.

Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence she kept smiling,
And approached him slowly, slowly, in a gliding measured pace;
With her two white hands extended as if praying one offended,
And a look of supplication gazing earnest in his face.

VII.

Said he--"Wake me by no gesture,--sound of breath, or stir of vesture!
Let the blessed apparition melt not yet to its divine!
No approaching--hush, no breathing!