New Zealand Verse/Ideal Beauty
CXXIII.
Ideal Beauty.
Absolve me for a while, undo
The links that bind me as your thrall.
So I be more myself, more worthy you;
Let me forget you too in dreams,
Your lang’rous waist and musical
Soft ways, like cadences of streams
Unlooked for, strange, but sweetly rhythmical;
The links that bind me as your thrall.
So I be more myself, more worthy you;
Let me forget you too in dreams,
Your lang’rous waist and musical
Soft ways, like cadences of streams
Unlooked for, strange, but sweetly rhythmical;
The morning freshness of the rose,
The suave, strong motion of the sea,
The strenuous splendour and repose
Of marble, and the lily’s purity;
The suave, strong motion of the sea,
The strenuous splendour and repose
Of marble, and the lily’s purity;
All these are types that symbolize
The secret charm, the subtle grace,
The music as of Paradise
That plays about your lissom limbs and face;
The secret charm, the subtle grace,
The music as of Paradise
That plays about your lissom limbs and face;
Let me forget all these and be
Once more self-centred, circumspect,
And of dædalian longings free.
Let me a fuller, stronger life elect;
Once more self-centred, circumspect,
And of dædalian longings free.
Let me a fuller, stronger life elect;
So may I on a windy shore
See screaming seagulls flying near,
And hear the hollow channels roar,
Nor seek in every breeze your voice to hear:
See screaming seagulls flying near,
And hear the hollow channels roar,
Nor seek in every breeze your voice to hear:
Or where the glints of sunshine steal
Through clust’ring clematis and fern,
There let me roam alone and feel
The simple joys of sense for which I yearn;
Through clust’ring clematis and fern,
There let me roam alone and feel
The simple joys of sense for which I yearn;
The lights and shadows of the bush,
The prattling music of the creek,
The stir of insects, and the hush
Of Solitude—these are the joys I seek.
The prattling music of the creek,
The stir of insects, and the hush
Of Solitude—these are the joys I seek.
Oh idle words! Since Marsyas died,
How many has Apollo slain?
And ah! how many too have tried
To win you or to shun you—but in vain.
How many has Apollo slain?
And ah! how many too have tried
To win you or to shun you—but in vain.
Ebenezer Storry Hay