VIII

Is love learned only out of poets’ books? 
  Is there not somewhat in the dropping flood,
And in the nunneries of silent nooks,
  And in the murmured longing of the wood, 60
That could make Margaret dream of lovelorn looks,
  And stir a thrilling mystery in her blood
More trembly secret than Aurora’s tear
Shed in the bosom of an eglatere?

IX

Full many a sweet forewarning hath the mind,
  Full many a whispering of vague desire,
Ere comes the nature destined to unbind
  Its virgin zone, and all its deeps inspire,—­ 70
Low stirrings in the leaves, before the wind
  Wake all the green strings of the forest lyre,
Faint heatings in the calyx, ere the rose
Its warm voluptuous breast doth all unclose.

X

Long in its dim recesses pines the spirit,
  Wildered and dark, despairingly alone;
Though many a shape of beauty wander near it,
  And many a wild and half-remembered tone
Tremble from the divine abyss to cheer it,
  Yet still it knows that there is only one
Before whom it can kneel and tribute bring. 
At once a happy vassal and a king. 80

XI

To feel a want, yet scarce know what it is,
  To seek one nature that is always new,
Whose glance is warmer than another’s kiss,
  Whom we can bare our inmost beauty to,
Nor feel deserted afterwards,—­for this
  But with our destined co-mate we can do,—­
Such longing instinct fills the mighty scope
Of the young soul with one mysterious hope.

XII

So Margaret’s heart grew brimming with the lore
  Of love’s enticing secrets; and although 90
She had found none to cast it down before,
  Yet oft to Fancy’s chapel she would go
To pay her vows—­and count the rosary o’er
  Of her love’s promised graces:—­haply so
Miranda’s hope had pictured Ferdinand
Long ere the gaunt wave tossed him on the strand.

XIII

A new-made star that swims the lonely gloom,
  Unwedded yet and longing for the sun,
Whose beams, the bride-gifts of the lavish groom,
  Blithely to crown the virgin planet run, 100
Her being was, watching to see the bloom
  Of love’s fresh sunrise roofing one by one
Its clouds with gold, a triumph-arch to be
For him who came to hold her heart in fee.

XIV

Not far from Margaret’s cottage dwelt a knight
  Of the proud Templars, a sworn celibate,
Whose heart in secret fed upon the light
  And dew of her ripe beauty, through the grate
Of his close vow catching what gleams he might
  Of the free heaven, and cursing all too late 110
The cruel faith whose black walls hemmed him in
And turned life’s crowning bliss to deadly sin.