V. VENUS CYTHEREA. 1. TELL me, thou many-finger'd Frost, In leafless woods forsaken O Frost, that o'er him lying low From silver cloud-wings shaken, And round bare boughs with strange device Twinest fantastic leaves of ice When will Adon waken ? Lo, dawn by dawn I rise afar Beside Apollo in his car, And, far below us wreathing, Thy fogs and mists are duskly curl'd But crimson thro' the mist our light Snow-bosom'd hills we fade on The pallid god, at my desire, Gives unto thee a breath of fire To reach the lips of Adon. 2. Tell me, thou bare and wintry World, Wherein the winged flowers are curl'd Like fairies darkly dozing— O World, within whose lap he lies, In dim unseen reposing, Husht underneath the wind and storm, Still rosy-lipt in darkness warm— Are Adon's eyes unclosing? Lo, dawn by dawn I rise afar Beside Apollo in his car, Keen-pricking as we go by Sharp tiny rifts in ice and snow Where ice-drops roll and melting show Shapes for flowers to grow by. Wonderful creatures of the light Flutter above thee, hanging bright Faint pictures glen and glade on ; The pallid god, at my desire, Hideth in cloudy snows his fire, To reach the sleep of Adon. 3. Tell me, thou spirit of the Sun, Strong, constant, unforsaking— Sun, by whose shadier side I sit, `Conferring light and taking— Thou whose eternal brightness throws The shadow-hours on his repose,— Is my Adon waking? Lo, dawn by dawn I rise afar Beside thee in thy flaming car, Thou ever-constant comer! And flashing on the clouds that break O breathe upon the Moon, that she When snowy hills we fade on, She speed the resurrection, And stir the sleep of Adon! 4. Tell me, O silver-winged Moon, Ice-sparkling pallid skies up, O Moon, that to the sunset grey, Liftest immortal eyes up, And walking on, art thro' the night Troubled to pain by that strange light,— When will Adon rise up? Lo, dawn by dawn I rise afar Beside Apollo in his car, Imploring sign or token; But night by night such pale peace beams Upon his slumber, that it seems Too beauteous to be broken! O gentle goddess, be not cold— New glory hill and glade on, The leaves and flowers alive to bliss, And, somewhat pale with your last kiss, The smiling face of Adon! |