Цитаты из книги Pippa Passes

Otti. Best never speak of it.

Seb. Best speak again and yet again of it, Till words cease to be more than words.

—Let me be cared about, kept out of harm, And schemed for, safe in love as with a charm;

You’ll love me yet!—and I can tarry Your love’s protracted growing: June reared that bunch of flowers you carry, From seeds of April’s sowing. I plant a heart full now: some seed At least is sure to strike, And yield—what you’ll not pluck indeed, Not love, but, may be, like!

You’ll look at least on love’s remains, A grave’s one violet Your look?—that pays a thousand pains. What’s death!—You’ll love me yet!

I can give news of earth to all the dead Who ask me:—last year’s sunsets, and great stars That had a right to come first and see ebb The crimson wave that drifts the sun away— Those crescent moons with notched and burning rims That strengthened into sharp fire, and there stood, Impatient of the azure—and that day In March, a double rainbow stopped the storm— May’s warm, slow, yellow moonlit summer nights— Gone are they, but I have them in my soul

Some unsuspected isle in the far seas! Like a god going through his world there stands One mountain for a moment in the dusk, Whole brotherhoods of cedars on its brow; And you are ever by me while I gaze —Are in my arms as now—as now—as now Some unsuspected isle in the far seas! Some unsuspected isle in far-off seas!

One may do whate’er one likes In Art: the only thing is, to make sure That one does like it—which takes pains to know.

We might meet somewhere, since the world is wide

Change into you, Beloved! You by me, And I by you; this is your hand in mine, And side by side we sit: all’s true. Thank God! I have spoken: speak, you! O, my life to come!

Seb. My God! and she is emptied of it now! Outright now!—how miraculously gone All of the grace—had she not strange grace once? Why, the blank cheek hangs listless as it likes, No purpose holds the features up together, Only the cloven brow and puckered chin Stay in their places—and the very hair, That seemed to have a sort of life in it, Drops, a dead web!

Otti. Speak to me—speak not of me!

Seb. Ottima, I would give your neck, Each splendid shoulder, both those breasts of yours, That this were undone!

Morning? It seems to me a night with a sun added. Where’s dew? where’s freshness? That bruised plant, I bruised In getting through the lattice yestereve, Droops as it did.

For, Day, my holiday, if thou ill-usest Me, who am only Pippa,—old-year’s sorrow, Cast off last night, will come again to-morrow— Whereas, if thou prove gentle, I shall borrow Sufficient strength of thee for new-year’s sorrow.

My Day, if I squander such labour or leisure, Then shame fall on Asolo, mischief on me !

Thy long blue solemn hours serenely flowing, Whence earth, we feel, gets steady help and

good

Thy fitful sunshine-minutes, coming, going, As if earth turned from work in gamesome mood All shall be mine !