And I would be the girdle
  About her dainty dainty waist,
And her heart would beat against me,
  In sorrow and in rest: 
And I should know if it beat right,
I’d clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace,
  And all day long to fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom,
  With her laughter or her sighs,
And I would lie so light, so light,
I scarce should be unclasp’d at night.

86. St. Agnes’ Eve.

Deep on the convent-roof the snows
  Are sparkling to the moon: 
My breath to heaven like vapour goes: 
  May my soul follow soon! 
The shadows of the convent-towers
  Slant down the snowy sward,
Still creeping with the creeping hours
  That lead me to my Lord: 
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear
  As are the frosty skies,
Or this first snowdrop of the year
  That in my bosom lies.

As these white robes are soil’d and dark,
  To yonder shining ground;
As this pale taper’s earthly spark,
  To yonder argent round;
So shows my soul before the Lamb,
  My spirit before Thee;
So in mine earthly house I am,
  To that I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far,
  Thro’ all yon starlight keen,
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,
  In raiment white and clean.

He lifts me to the golden doors;
  The flashes come and go;
All heaven bursts her starry floors,
  And strows her lights below,
And deepens on and up! the gates
  Roll back, and far within
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,
  To make me pure of sin. 
The sabbaths of Eternity,
  One sabbath deep and wide—­
A light upon the shining sea—­
  The Bridegroom with his bride!

87. Break, break, break.

Break, break, break,
  On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! 
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman’s boy,
  That he shouts with his sister at play! 
O well for the sailor lad. 
  That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on
  To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish’d hand,
  And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,
  At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
  Will never come back to me.

88. Song from ’The Princess.’

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.