| 191 | 192 | 193 | 194 | 195 |
| 1 | 101 | 202 | 302 | 403 |
|
Find it, although before mine eyes.
For in the flaxen lilies' shade
It like a bank of lilies laid;
Upon the roses it would feed
Until its lips even seemed to bleed,
And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip,
But all its chief delight was still
With roses thus itself to fill,
And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold.
Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within."
How truthful an air of lamentations hangs here upon every syllable!
It pervades all.. It comes over the sweet melody of the words-over the
gentleness and grace which we fancy in the little maiden herself-even
over the half-playful, half-petulant air with which she lingers on the
beauties and good qualities of her favorite-like the cool shadow of a
summer cloud over a bed of lilies and violets, "and all sweet flowers."
The whole is redolent with poetry of a very lofty order. Every line is
an idea conveying either the beauty and playfulness of the fawn, or the
artlessness of the maiden, or her love, or her admiration, or her
grief, or the fragrance and warmth and appropriateness of the little
nest-like bed of lilies and roses which the fawn devoured as it lay upon
them, and could scarcely be distinguished from them by the once happy
193
Page
Quick Jump
|