Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: TO MIGNONNE, by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: At morning, from the sunlight Last Line: Things must rest so. Alternate Author Name(s): Meredith, Owen; Lytton, 1st Earl Of; Lytton, Robert Subject(s): France; Travel; Journeys; Trips | ||||||||
AT morning, from the sunlight I shall miss your sunny face, Leaning, laughing, on my shoulder With its careless infant grace; And your hand there, With its rosy, inside color, And the sparkle of its rings; And your soul from this old chamber Missed in fifty little things, When I stand there. And the roses in the garden Droop stupid all the day, -- Red, thirsty mouths wide open, With not a word to say! Their last meaning Is all faded, like a fragrance, From the languishing late flowers, With your feet, your slow white movements, And your face, in silent hours, O'er them leaning. And, in long, cool summer evenings, I shall never see you, drest In those pale violet colors Which suit your sweet face best. Here 's your glove, child, Soiled and empty, as you left it, Yet your hand's warmth seems to stay In it still, as though this moment You had drawn your hand away; Like your love, child, Which still stays about my fancy. See this little, silken boot. -- What a plaything! was there ever Such a slight and slender foot? Is it strange now How that, when your lips are nearest To the lips they feed upon For a summer time, till bees sleep, On a sudden you are gone? What new change now Sets you sighing ... eyes uplifted To the starry night above? "God is great ... the soul 's immortal ... Must we die, though! ...Do you love? One kiss more, then: "Life might end now!" ...And next moment With those wicked little feet, You have vanished, -- like a Fairy From a fountain in the heat, And all 's o'er, then. Well, no matter! ...hearts are breaking Every day, but not for you, Little wanton, ever making Chains of rose, to break them through. I would mourn you, But your red smile was too warm, Sweet, And your little heart too cold, And your blue eyes too blue merely, For a strong, sad man to scold, Weep, or scorn, you. For that smile's soft, transient sunshine At my hearth, when it was chill, I shall never do your name wrong, But think kindly of you still; And each moment Of your pretty infant angers, (Who could help but smile at ... when Those small feet would stamp our love out?) Why, I pass them now, as then, Without comment. Only, here, when I am searching For the book I cannot find, I must sometimes pass your boudoir, Howsoever disinclined; And must meet there The gold bird-cage in the window, Where no bird is singing now; The small sofa and the footstool, Where I miss ... I know not how ... Your young feet there, Silken-soft in each quaint slipper; And the jewelled writing-case, Where you never more will write now; And the vision of your face, Just turned to me: -- I would save this, if I could, child, But that 's all ... September 's here! I must write a book: read twenty: Learn a language ... what 's to fear? Who grows gloomy Being free to work, as I am? Yet these autumn nights are cold. How I wonder how you 'll pass them! Ah, ...could all be as of old! But 't is best so. All good things must go for better, As the primrose for the rose. Is love free? why so is life, too! Holds the grave fast? ...I suppose Things must rest so. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RICHARD, WHAT'S THAT NOISE? by RICHARD HOWARD LOOKING FOR THE GULF MOTEL by RICHARD BLANCO RIVERS INTO SEAS by LYNDA HULL DESTINATIONS by JOSEPHINE JACOBSEN THE ONE WHO WAS DIFFERENT by RANDALL JARRELL THE CONFESSION OF ST. JIM-RALPH by DENIS JOHNSON SESTINA: TRAVEL NOTES by WELDON KEES TO H. B. (WITH A BOOK OF VERSE) by MAURICE BARING THE LAST WISH by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: AUX ITALIENS by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: THE CHESSBOARD by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |
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