'Violet! sweet violet!
Thine eyes are full of tears;
Are they wet
Even yet
With the thought of other years?
Or with gladness are they full,
For the night is beautiful,
And longing for those far-off spheres?
Thy little heart, that hath with love
Grown colored, like the sky above
On which thou lookest ever--
Can it know
All the woe
Of hope for what returneth never,
All the sorrow and the longing
To these hearts of ours belonging?'
And there are touches of what we are wont to call dear, womanly feeling,
as when the 'Forlorn,' out in the bitter cold,
'Hears a woman's voice within
Singing sweet words her childhood knew,
And years of misery and sin
_Furl off and leave her heaven blue_.'
The 'Changeling' alone would sustain a reputation. It seems always like
the plaintive but sweet warble of some unknown bird rising from the
midst of tall water-rushes in the day's dim dawning. A wonderful melody
as of Mrs. Browning's best efforts pervades every verse, priceless and
rare as some old intaglio. But when we come to his 'Odes to the Past and
the Future,' the full power of poesy unfolds before us. Their images are
not the impalpable spectres of a poet's dream, but symbols hardened into
marble by his skill, and informed with the fire of life by his genius.
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