Dante Gabriel Rossetti (12 May 1828 – 9 April 1882 / London / England)
LADY, in thy proud eyes
There is a weary look,
As if the spirit we know through them
Were daunted with rebuke
To think that the heart of man henceforth
Is read like a read book.
Lady, in thy lifted face
The solitude is sore;
The true solitude follows the crowd.
Will it be less or more
When the words have been spoken to thee
Which my heart is seeking for?
Lady, canst thou not guess
The words which my thoughts seek?
Perhaps thou deem'st them well to spurn
And better not to speak.
Oh thou must know my love is strong,
Hearing my voice so weak.
Lady, ah go not thus:
Lady, give ear again:
Lady, oh learn from me that yet
There may one thing remain
Which stands not in the knowledge thou hast
And in thy lore of men.
Lady, the darkness lasteth long
Ere the dawn touch the skies;
Many are the leagues of wilderness
Till ye come where the green lies;
Nay often betwixt doubt and doubt
Death whispers and makes wise.
Lady, has not my thought
Dared much? For I would be
The ending of darkness and the dawn
Of a new day to thee,
And thine oasis, and thy place of rest,
And thy time of peace, lady.
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