Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/217

Rh There the avalanche thunders

The hoarse torrent dumb.

—I come, O ye mountains!

Ye torrents, I come!

But who is this, by the half-opened door,

Whose figure casts a shadow on the floor?

The sweet blue eyes—the soft, ash-colored hair—

The cheeks that still their gentle paleness wear—

The lovely lips, with their arched smile that tells

The unconquered joy in which her spirit dwells—

Ah! they bend nearer—

Sweet lips, this way!

Hark! the wind rushes past us!

Ah! with that let me go

To the clear, waning hill-side,

Unspotted by snow,

There to watch, o'er the sunk vale,

The frore mountain wall,

Where the niched snow-bed sprays down

Its powdery fall.

There its dusky blue clusters

The aconite spreads;

There the pines slope, the cloud-strips

Hung soft in their heads.

No life but, at moments,

The mountain bee's hum.

—I come, O ye mountains!

Ye pine-woods, I come!

Forgive me! forgive me!

Ah, Marguerite, fain

Would these arms reach to clasp thee!

But see! 'tis in vain.