This morning is the morning of the day, 
When I and Eustace from the city went 
To see the Gardeners Daughter; I and he, 
Brothers in Art; a friendship so complete 
Portion d in halves between us, that we grew 
The fable of the city where we dwelt. 
    My Eustace might have sat for Hercules; 
So muscular he spread, so broad of breast. 
He, by some law that holds in love, and draws 
The greater to the lesser, long desired 
A certain miracle of symmetry, 
A miniature of loveliness, all grace 
Summ'd up and closed in little;  — Juliet, she 
So light of foot, so light of spirit — oh, she 
To me myself, for some three careless moons, 
The summer pilot of an empty heart 
Unto the shores of nothing! Know you not 
Such touches are but embassies of love, 
To tamper with the feelings, ere he found 
Empire for life? but Eustace painted her, 
And said to me, she sitting with us then, 
‘When will you paint like this?’ and I replied, 
(My words were half in earnest, half in jest,) 
‘'Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, un-perceived, 
A more ideal Artist he than all, 
Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes 
Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair 
More black than ashbuds in the front of March.’
And Juliet answer'd laughing, ‘Go and see 
The Gardeners daughter: trust me, after that, 
You scarce can fail to match his master-piece.’
And up we rose, and on the spur we went. 
    Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite 
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. 
News from the humming city comes to it 
In sound of funeral or of marriage bells; 
And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear 
The windy clanging of the minster clock; 
Although between it and the garden lies 
A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad stream, 
That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar, 
Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, 
Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge 
Crown'd with the minster-towers. 
                                             The fields between 
Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder'd kine, 
And all about the large lime feathers low, 
The lime a summer home of murmurous wings. 
    In that still place she, hoarded in herself, 
Grew, seldom seen: not less among us lived 
Her fame from lip to lip. Who had not heard 
Of Rose, the Gardeners daughter? Where was he, 
So blunt in memory, so old at heart, 
At such a distance from his youth in grief, 
That, having seen, forgot? The common mouth, 
So gross to express delight, in praise of her 
Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, 
And Beauty such a mistress of the world. 
    And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, 
Would play with flying forms and images, 
Yet this is also true, that, long before 
I look'd upon her, when I heard her name 
My heart was like a prophet to my heart, 
And told me I should love. A crowd of hopes, 
That sought to sow themselves like winged seeds, 
Born out of everything I heard and saw, 
Flutter'd about my senses and my soul; 
And vague desires, like fitful blasts of balm 
To one that travels quickly, made the air 
Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought, 
That verged upon them, sweeter than the dream 
Dream'd by a happy man, when the dark East, 
Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn. 
    And sure this orbit of the memory folds 
For ever in itself the day we went 
To see her. All the land in flowery squares, 
Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind, 
Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud 
Drew downward: but all else of Heaven was pure 
Up to the Sun, and May from verge to verge, 
And May with me from head to heel. And now, 
As tho' 'twere yesterday, as tho' it were 
The hour just flown, that morn with all its sound, 
(For those old Mays had thrice the life of these,) 
Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to graze, 
And, where the hedge-row cuts the pathway, stood, 
Leaning his horns into the neighbour field, 
And lowing to his fellows. From the woods 
Came voices of the well-contented doves. 
The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy, 
But shook his song together as he near'd 
His happy home, the ground. To left and right, 
The cuckoo told his name to all the hills; 
The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm; 
The redcap whistled; and the nightingale 
Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of day. 
    And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said to me, 
‘Hear how the bushes echo! by my life, 
These birds have joyful thoughts. Think you they sing 
Like poets, from the vanity of song? 
Or have they any sense of why they sing? 
And would they praise the heavens for what they have?" 
And I made answer, "Were there nothing else 
For which to praise the heavens but only love, 
That only love were cause enough for praise.’ 
    Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read my thought, 
And on we went; but ere an hour had pass'd, 
We reach'd a meadow slanting to the North; 
Down which a well-worn pathway courted us 
To one green wicket in a privet hedge; 
This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk 
Thro’ crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned; 
And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, blew 
Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. 
The garden stretches southward. In the midst 
A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade. 
The garden-glasses shone, and momently 
The twinkling laurel scatterd silver lights. 
    ‘Eustace,’ I said, ‘this wonder keeps the house.’ 
He nodded, but a moment afterwards 
He cried, ‘Look! look!’ Before he ceased I turn'd, 
And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there. 
    For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose, 
That, flowering high, the last night's gale had caught, 
And blown across the walk. One arm aloft — 
Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the shape — 
Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood. 
A single stream of all her soft brown hair 
Pour'd on one side: the shadow of the flowers 
Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering 
Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist — 
Ah, happy shade — and still went wavering down, 
But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might have danced 
The greensward into greener circles, dipt, 
And mix'd with shadows of the common ground! 
But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn'd 
Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe-bloom, 
And doubled his own warmth against her lips, 
And on the bounteous wave of such a breast 
As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade, 
She stood, a sight to make an old man young. 
    So rapt, we neard the house; but she, a Rose 
In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, 
Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turn'd 
Into the world without; till close at hand, 
And almost ere I knew mine own intent, 
This murmur broke the stillness of that air 
Which brooded round about her: 
                                                 ‘Ah, one rose, 
One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull'd, 
Were worth a hundred kisses press'd on lips 
Less exquisite than thine.’ 
                                             She look'd: but all 
Suffused with blushes — neither self-possess'd 
Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that, 
Divided in a graceful quiet — paused, 
And dropt the branch she held, and turning, wound 
Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her lips 
For some sweet answer, tho' no answer came, 
Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it, 
And moved away, and left me, statue-like, 
In act to render thanks. 
                                     I, that whole day, 
Saw her no more, altho' I linger' d there 
Till every daisy slept, and Love's white star 
Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in the dusk. 
    So home we went, and all the livelong way 
With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me. 
‘Now,' said he, ‘will you climb the top of Art. 
You cannot fail but work in hues to dim 
The Titianic Flora. Will you match 
My Juliet? you, not you, — the Master, Love, 
A more ideal Artist he than all.’ 
    So home I went, but could not sleep for joy, 
Reading her perfect features in the gloom, 
Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er, 
And shaping faithful record of the glance 
That graced the giving — such a noise of life 
Swarm'd in the golden present, such a voice 
Call'd to me from the years to come, and such 
A length of bright horizon rimm'd the dark. 
And all that night I heard the watchmen peal 
The sliding season: all that night I heard 
The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours. 
The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good, 
O'er the mute city stole with folded wings, 
Distilling odours on me as they went 
To greet their fairer sisters of the East. 
    Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all, 
Made this night thus. Henceforward squall nor storm 
Could keep me from that Eden where she dwelt. 
Light pretexts drew me: sometimes a Dutch love 
For tulips; then for roses, moss or musk, 
To grace my city-rooms; or fruits and cream 
Served in the weeping elm; and more and more 
A word could bring the colour to my cheek; 
A thought would fill my eyes with happy dew; 
Love trebled life within me, and with each 
The year increased. 
                                The daughters of the year, 
One after one, thro' that still garden pass'd: 
Each garlanded with her peculiar flower 
Danced into light, and died into the shade; 
And each in passing touch'd with some new grace 
Or seem'd to touch her, so that day by day, 
Like one that never can be wholly known, 
Her beauty grew; till Autumn brought an hour 
For Eustace, when I heard his deep "I will," 
Breathed, like the covenant of a God, to hold 
From thence thro' all the worlds: but I rose up 
Full of his bliss, and following her dark eyes 
Felt earth as air beneath me, till I reach'd 
The wicket-gate, and found her standing there. 
    There sat we down upon a garden mound. 
Two mutually enfolded; Love, the third, 
Between us, in the circle of his arms 
Enwound us both; and over many a range 
Of waning lime the gray cathedral towers, 
Across a hazy glimmer of the west, 
Reveal'd their shining windows: from them clash'd 
The bells; we listen'd; with the time we play'd; 
We spoke of other things; we coursed about 
The subject most at heart, more near and near, 
Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling round 
The central wish, until we settled there. 
    Then, in that time and place, I spoke to her, 
Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own, 
Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear, 
Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, 
A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved; 
And in that time and place she answer'd me, 
And in the compass of three little words, 
More musical than ever came in one, 
The silver fragments of a broken voice, 
Made me most happy, faltering ‘I am thine.’ 
    Shall I cease here? Is this enough to say 
That my desire, like all strongest hopes, 
By its own energy fulfill' d itself, 
Merged in completion? Would you learn at full 
How passion rose thro' circumstantial grades 
Beyond all grades develop'd? and indeed 
I had not staid so long to tell you all, 
But while I mused came Memory with sad eyes, 
Holding the folded annals of my youth; 
And while I mused, Love with knit brows went by, 
And with a flying finger swept my lips, 
And spake, ‘Be wise: not easily forgiven 
Are those, who setting wide the doors, that bar 
The secret bridal chambers of the heart, 
Let in the day.’ Here, then, my words have end. 
    Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells — 
Of that which came between, more sweet than each, 
In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves 
That tremble round a nightingale — in sighs 
Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utterance, 
Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell 
Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given, 
And vows, where there was never need of vows. 
And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap 
Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above 
The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale 
Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars; 
Or while the balmy glooming, crescent-lit, 
Spread the light haze along the river-shores, 
And in the hollows; or as once we met 
Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering rain 
Night slid down one long stream of sighing wind, 
And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep. 
    But this whole hour your eyes have been intent 
On that veil'd picture — veil'd, for what it holds 
May not be dwelt on by the common day. 
This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy soul; 
Make thine heart ready with thine eyes: the time 
Is come to raise the veil. 
                                                 Behold her there, 
As I beheld her ere she knew my heart, 
My first, last love; the idol of my youth, 
The darling of my manhood, and, alas! 
Now the most blessed memory of mine age. 


 = Robin Gabrielli