Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/182

144 Where feebly comes the mournful roar

Of buffeting wind and surging tide

Through many a room and corridor.

—Full on their window the moon's ray

Makes their chamber as bright as day.

It shines upon the blank white walls,

And on the snowy pillow falls,

And on two angel-heads doth play

Turned to each other; the eyes closed,

The lashes on the cheeks reposed.

Round each sweet brow the cap close-set

Hardly lets peep the golden hair;

Through the soft-opened lips, the air

Scarcely moves the coverlet.

One little wandering arm is thrown

At random on the counterpane,

And often the fingers close in haste

As if their baby-owner chased

The butterflies again.

This stir they have, and this alone;

But else they are so still!

—Ah, tired madcaps! you lie still;

But were you at the window now,

To look forth on the fairy sight

Of your illumined haunts by night,

To see the park-glades where you play

Far lovelier than they are by day,

To see the sparkle on the eaves,

And upon every giant-bough

Of those old oaks, whose wet red leaves

Are jewelled with bright drops of rain,—

How would your voices run again!

And far beyond the sparkling trees

Of the castle-park, one sees