"WHO is the maid, with golden hair, With eyes of fire and feet of air, Whose harp around my altar swells, The sweetest of a thousand shells?" 'Twas thus the deity who treads The arch of heaven, and grandly sheds Day from his eyelids! -- thus he spoke, As through my cell his glories broke. "Who is the maid, with golden hair, With eyes of fire and feet of air, Whose harp around my altar swells, The sweetest of a thousand shells?" Aphelia is the Delphic fair, With eyes of fire and golden hair, Aphelia's are the airy feet, And hers the harp divinely sweet; For foot so light has never trod The laurell'd caverns of the god, Nor harp so soft has ever given A strain to earth or sigh to heaven! 'Then tell the virgin to unfold, In looser pomp, her locks of gold, And bid those eyes with fonder fire Be kindled for a god's desire; Since he who lights the path of years -- Even from the fount of morning's tears, To where his setting splendours burn Upon the western sea-maid's urn -- Cannot, in all his course, behold Such eyes of fire, such hair of gold! Tell her, he comes, in blissful pride, His lip yet sparkling with the tide, That mantles in Olympian bowls, The nectar of eternal souls! For her, for her he quits the skies, And to her kiss from nectar flies. Oh! he would hide his wreath of rays, And leave the world to pine for days, Might he but pass the hours of shade, Imbosom'd by his Delphic maid, She, more than earthly woman blest, He, more than god on woman's breast." There is a cave beneath the steep, Where living rills of crystal weep O'er herbage of the loveliest hue That ever spring begemm'd with dew, There oft the green bank's glossy tint Is brighten'd by the amorous print Of many a faun and naiad's form, That still upon the dew is warm, When virgins come, at peep of day, To kiss the sod where lovers lay! "There, there," the god, impassion'd, said, "Soon as the twilight tinge is fled, And the dim orb of lunar souls Along its shadowy pathway rolls -- There shall we find our bridal bed, And ne'er did rosy rapture spread, Not even in Jove's voluptuous bowers, A bridal bed so blest as ours! "Tell the imperial god, who reigns, Sublime in oriental fanes, Whose towering turrets paint their pride Upon Euphrates' pregnant tide; Tell him, when to his midnight loves In mystic majesty he moves, Lighted by many an odorous fire, And hymn'd by all Chaldaea's choir -- Oh! tell the godhead to confess, The pompous joy delights him less (Even though his mighty arms enfold A priestess on a couch of gold) Than, when, in love's unholier prank, By moonlight cave or rustic bank, Upon his neck some wood-nymph lies, Exhaling from her lip and eyes The flame and incense of delight, To sanctify a dearer rite, A mystery, more divinely warm'd Than priesthood ever yet perform'd!" Happy the maid, whom Heaven allows To break for Heaven her virgin vows! Happy the maid! -- her robe of shame Is whiten'd by a heavenly flame, Whose glory, with a lingering trace, Shines through and deifies her race! O virgin! what a doom is thine! To-night, to-night a lip divine In every kiss shall stamp on thee A seal of immortality! Fly to the cave, Aphelia, fly; There lose the world and wed the sky! There all the boundless rapture steal Which gods can give or woman feel! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EGERTON MANUSCRIPT: 102 by THOMAS WYATT WIND AND WINDOW FLOWER by ROBERT FROST HER MERRIMENT by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES SACRIFICE by GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL THE ARAB TO THE PALM by BAYARD TAYLOR PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 72, 73, 74, 75. AWWAL, AKHIR, THAHIR, BATIN by EDWIN ARNOLD |