Elizabeth Barrett Browning — An Island

I. My dream is of an island-place        &nbspWhich distant seas keep lonely, A little island on whose face        &nbspThe stars are watchers only: Those bright still stars! they need not seem Brighter or stiller in my dream. II. An island full of hills and dells,        &nbspAll rumpled and uneven With green recesses, sudden swells,        &nbspAnd odorous valleys driven So deep and straight that always there The wind is cradled to soft air. III. Hills running up to heaven for light        &nbspThrough woods that half-way ran, As if the wild earth mimicked right        &nbspThe wilder heart of man: Only it shall be greener far And gladder than hearts ever are. IV. More like, perhaps, that mountain piece        &nbspOf Dante's paradise, Disrupt to an hundred hills like these,        &nbspIn falling from the skies; Bringing within it, all the roots Of heavenly trees and flowers and fruits: V. For—saving where the grey rocks strike        &nbspTheir javelins up the azure, Or where deep fissures miser-like        &nbspHoard up some fountain treasure, (And e'en in them, stoop down and hear, Leaf sounds with water in your ear,—) VI. The place is all awave with trees,        &nbspLimes, myrtles purple-beaded, Acacias having drunk the lees        &nbspOf the night-dew, faint-headed, And wan grey olive-woods which seem The fittest foliage for a dream. VII. Trees, trees on all sides! they combine        &nbspTheir plumy shades to throw, Through whose clear fruit and blossom fine        &nbspWhene'er the sun may go, The ground beneath he deeply stains, As passing through cathedral panes. VIII. But little needs this earth of ours        &nbspThat shining from above her, When many Pleiades of flowers        &nbsp(Not one lost) star her over, The rays of their unnumbered hues Being all refracted by the dews. IX. Wide-petalled plants that boldly drink        &nbspThe Amreeta of the sky, Shut bells that dull with rapture sink,        &nbspAnd lolling buds, half shy; I cannot count them, but between Is room for grass and mosses green, X. And brooks, that glass in different strengths        &nbspAll colours in disorder, Or, gathering up their silver lengths        &nbspBeside their winding border, Sleep, haunted through the slumber hidden, By lilies white as dreams in Eden. XI. Nor think each archèd tree with each        &nbspToo closely interlaces To admit of vistas out of reach,        &nbspAnd broad moon-lighted places Upon whose sward the antlered deer May view their double image clear. XII. For all this island's creature-full,        &nbsp(Kept happy not by halves) Mild cows, that at the vine-wreaths pull,        &nbspThen low back at their calves With tender lowings, to approve The warm mouths milking them for love. XIII. Free gamesome horses, antelopes,        &nbspAnd harmless leaping leopards, And buffaloes upon the slopes,        &nbspAnd sheep unruled by shepherds: Hares, lizards, hedgehogs, badgers, mice, Snakes, squirrels, frogs, and butterflies. XIV. And birds that live there in a crowd,        &nbspHorned owls, rapt nightingales, Larks bold with heaven, and peacocks proud,        &nbspSelf-sphered in those grand tails; All creatures glad and safe, I deem No guns nor springes in my dream! XV. The island's edges are a-wing        &nbspWith trees that overbranch The sea with song-birds welcoming        &nbspThe curlews to green change; And doves from half-closed lids espy The red and purple fish go by. XVI. One dove is answering in trust        &nbspThe water every minute, Thinking so soft a murmur must        &nbspHave her mate's cooing in it: So softly doth earth's beauty round Infuse itself in ocean's sound. XVII. My sanguine soul bounds forwarder        &nbspTo meet the bounding waves; Beside them straightway I repair,        &nbspTo live within the caves: And near me two or three may dwell Whom dreams fantastic please as well. XVIII. Long winding caverns, glittering far        &nbspInto a crystal distance! Through clefts of which shall many a star        &nbspShine clear without resistance, And carry down its rays the smell Of flowers above invisible. XIX. I said that two or three might choose        &nbspTheir dwelling near mine own: Those who would change man's voice and use,        &nbspFor Nature's way and tone— Man's veering heart and careless eyes, For Nature's steadfast sympathies. XX. Ourselves, to meet her faithfulness,        &nbspShall play a faithful part; Her beautiful shall ne'er address        &nbspThe monstrous at our heart: Her musical shall ever touch Something within us also such. XXI. Yet shall she not our mistress live,        &nbspAs doth the moon of ocean, Though gently as the moon she give        &nbspOur thoughts a light and motion: More like a harp of many lays, Moving its master while he plays. XXII. No sod in all that island doth        &nbspYawn open for the dead; No wind hath borne a traitor's oath;        &nbspNo earth, a mourner's tread; We cannot say by stream or shade, "I suffered here,—was here betrayed." XXIII. Our only "farewell" we shall laugh        &nbspTo shifting cloud or hour, And use our only epitaph        &nbspTo some bud turned a flower: Our only tears shall serve to prove Excess in pleasure or in love. XXIV. Our fancies shall their plumage catch        &nbspFrom fairest island-birds, Whose eggs let young ones out at hatch,        &nbspBorn singing! then our words Unconsciously shall take the dyes Of those prodigious fantasies. XXV. Yea, soon, no consonant unsmooth        &nbspOur smile-tuned lips shall reach; Sounds sweet as Hellas spake in youth        &nbspShall glide into our speech: (What music, certes, can you find As soft as voices which are kind?) XXVI. And often, by the joy without        &nbspAnd in us, overcome, We, through our musing, shall let float        &nbspSuch poems,—sitting dumb,— As Pindar might have writ if he Had tended sheep in Arcady; XXVII. Or Æschylus—the pleasant fields        &nbspHe died in, longer knowing; Or Homer, had men's sins and shields        &nbspBeen lost in Meles flowing; Or Poet Plato, had the undim Unsetting Godlight broke on him. XXVIII. Choose me the cave most worthy choice,        &nbspTo make a place for prayer, And I will choose a praying voice        &nbspTo pour our spirits there: How silverly the echoes run! Thy will be done,—thy will be done. XXIX. Gently yet strangely uttered words!        &nbspThey lift me from my dream; The island fadeth with its swards        &nbspThat did no more than seem: The streams are dry, no sun could find— The fruits are fallen, without wind. XXX. So oft the doing of God's will        &nbspOur foolish wills undoeth! And yet what idle dream breaks ill,        &nbspWhich morning-light subdueth? And who would murmur and misdoubt, When God's great sunrise finds him out?


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