Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: TO MIGNONNE, by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON

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THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: TO MIGNONNE, by             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.

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