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Long have I sigh’d for a calm: God grant I may

find it at last!

It will never be broken by Maud, she has neither

savour nor salt,

But a cold and clear-cut face, as I found when her

carriage past, Perfectly beautiful: let it be granted her: where is

the fault?

All that I saw (for her eyes were downcast, not to

be seen)

Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly


Dead perfection, no more; nothing more, if it had

not been

For a chance of travel, a paleness, an hour's defect

of the rose,

Or an underlip, you may call it a little too ripe, too


Or the least little delicate aquiline curve in a sensi

tive nose,

From which I escaped heart-free, with the least

little touch of spleen.

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COLD and clear-cut face, why come you so cruelly

meek, Breaking a slumber in which all spleenful folly was

drown'd, Pale with the golden beam of an eyelash dead on

the cheek,

Passionless, pale, cold face, star-sweet on a gloomi

profound; Womanlike, taking revenge too deep for a transient


Done but in thought to your beauty, and ever as

pale as before

Growing and fading and growing upon me without

a sound,

Luminous, gemlike, ghostlike, deathlike, half the

night long Growing and fading and growing, till I could bear

it no more,

But arose, and all by myself in my own dark

garden ground, Listening now to the tide in its broad-flung ship

wrecking roar, Now to the scream of a madden'd beach dragg’d

down by the wave, Walk'd in a wintry wind by a ghastly glimmer,

and found

The shining daffodil dead, and Orion low in his




A MILLION emeralds break from the ruby-budded


In the little grove where I sit—ah, wherefore

cannot I be

Like things of the season gay, like the bountiful

season bland, When the far-off sail is blown by the breeze of a

softer clime,

Half-lost in the liquid azure bloom of a crescent

of sea,

The silent sapphire-spangled marriage ring of the

land ?

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