For Fanny Brawne
The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,
Warm breath, light whisper, tender semitone,
Bright eyes, accomplished shape, and lang'rous waist!
Faded the flower and all its budded charms,
Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,
Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,
Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise!
Vanished unseasonably at shut of eve,
When the dusk holiday—or holinight—
Of fragrant-curtained love begins to weave
The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight;
But, as I've read love's missal through today,
He'll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.
Written October 11, 1819. This poem is in the public domain.
Physician Nature! let my spirit blood! O ease my heart of verse and let me rest; Throw me upon thy tripod, till the flood Of stifling numbers ebbs from my full breast. A theme! a theme! Great Nature! give a theme; Let me begin my dream. I come—I see thee, as thou standest there, Beckon me out into the wintry air. Ah! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears And hopes and joys and panting miseries,— To-night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears A smile of such delight, As brilliant and as bright, As when with ravished, aching, vassal eyes, Lost in a soft amaze, I gaze, I gaze! Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my feast? What stare outfaces now my silver moon! Ah! keep that hand unravished at the least; Let, let the amorous burn— But, prithee, do not turn The current of your heart from me so soon: O save, in charity, The quickest pulse for me. Save it for me, sweet love! though music breathe Voluptuous visions into the warm air, Though swimming through the dance’s dangerous wreath, Be like an April day, Smiling and cold and gay, A temperate lily, temperate as fair; Then, heaven! there will be A warmer June for me. Why this, you’ll say—my Fanny!—is not true; Put your soft hand upon your snowy side, Where the heart beats: confess—'tis nothing new - Must not a woman be A feather on the sea, Swayed to and fro by every wind and tide? Of as uncertain speed As blow-ball from the mead? I know it—and to know it is despair To one who loves you as I love, sweet Fanny, Whose heart goes fluttering for you every where, Nor when away you roam, Dare keep its wretched home: Love, love alone, has pains severe and many; Then, loveliest! keep me free From torturing jealousy. Ah! if you prize my subdued soul above The poor, the fading, brief pride of an hour: Let none profane my Holy See of Love, Or with a rude hand break The sacramental cake: Let none else touch the just new-budded flower; If not—may my eyes close, Love, on their last repose!
This poem is in the public domain.