In thy last smiles; adoring Even and Morn
Will worship thee with incense of calm breath
And lights and shadows; as the star of Death
And Birth is worshipped by those sisters wild 380
Called Hope and Fear—­upon the heart are piled
Their offerings,—­of this sacrifice divine
A World shall be the altar. 
Lady mine,
Scorn not these flowers of thought, the fading birth
Which from its heart of hearts that plant puts forth 385
Whose fruit, made perfect by thy sunny eyes,
Will be as of the trees of Paradise.

The day is come, and thou wilt fly with me. 
To whatsoe’er of dull mortality
Is mine, remain a vestal sister still; 390
To the intense, the deep, the imperishable,
Not mine but me, henceforth be thou united
Even as a bride, delighting and delighted. 
The hour is come:—­the destined Star has risen
Which shall descend upon a vacant prison. 395
The walls are high, the gates are strong, thick set
The sentinels—­but true Love never yet
Was thus constrained:  it overleaps all fence: 
Like lightning, with invisible violence
Piercing its continents; like Heaven’s free breath, 400
Which he who grasps can hold not; liker Death,
Who rides upon a thought, and makes his way
Through temple, tower, and palace, and the array
Of arms:  more strength has Love than he or they;
For it can burst his charnel, and make free 405
The limbs in chains, the heart in agony,
The soul in dust and chaos. 
Emily,
A ship is floating in the harbour now,
A wind is hovering o’er the mountain’s brow;
There is a path on the sea’s azure floor, 410
No keel has ever ploughed that path before;
The halcyons brood around the foamless isles;
The treacherous Ocean has forsworn its wiles;
The merry mariners are bold and free: 
Say, my heart’s sister, wilt thou sail with me? 415
Our bark is as an albatross, whose nest
Is a far Eden of the purple East;
And we between her wings will sit, while Night,
And Day, and Storm, and Calm, pursue their flight,
Our ministers, along the boundless Sea, 420
Treading each other’s heels, unheededly. 
It is an isle under Ionian skies,
Beautiful as a wreck of Paradise,
And, for the harbours are not safe and good,
This land would have remained a solitude 425
But for some pastoral people native there,
Who from the Elysian, clear, and golden air
Draw the last spirit of the age of gold,
Simple and spirited; innocent and bold. 
The blue Aegean girds this chosen home, 430
With ever-changing sound and light and foam,
Kissing the sifted sands, and caverns hoar;