Parting

Ye storm-winds of Autumn     Who rush by, who shake     The window, and ruffle     The gleam-lighted lake;     Who cross to the hill-side     Thin-sprinkled with farms,     Where the high woods strip sadly     Their yellowing arms;     Ye are bound for the mountains,     Ah, with you let me go     Where your cold distant barrier,     The vast range of snow,     Through the loose clouds lifts dimly     Its white peaks in air,     How deep is their stillness!     Ah! would I were there!     But on the stairs what voice is this I hear,     Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear?     Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawn     Lent it the music of its trees at dawn?     Or was it from some sun-fleckd mountain-brook     That the sweet voice its upland clearness took?     Ah! it comes nearer,     Sweet notes, this way!     Hark! fast by the window     The rushing winds go,     To the ice-cumberd gorges,     The vast seas of snow.     There the torrents drive upward     Their rock-strangled hum,     There the avalanche thunders     The hoarse torrent dumb.     I come, O ye mountains!     Ye torrents, I come!     But who is this, by the half-opend door,     Whose figure casts a shadow on the floor     The sweet blue eyes, the soft, ash-colourd hair,     The cheeks that still their gentle paleness wear,     The lovely lips, with their arch smile, that tells     The unconquerd joy in which her spirit dwells,     Ah! they bend nearer,     Sweet lips, this way!     Hark! the wind rushes past us,     Ah! with that let me go     To the clear waning hill-side     Unspotted by snow,     There to watch, oer the sunk vale,     The frore mountain wall,     Where the nichd snow-bed sprays down     Its powdery fall.     There its dusky blue clusters     The aconite spreads;     There the pines slope, the cloud-strips     Hung soft in their heads.     No life but, at moments,     The mountain-bees hum.     I come, O ye mountains     Ye pine-woods, I come!     Forgive me! forgive me     Ah, Marguerite, fain     Would these arms reach to clasp thee:     But see! tis in vain.     In the void air towards thee     My straind arms are cast.     But a sea rolls between us,     Our different past.     To the lips, ah! of others,     Those lips have been prest,     And others, ere I was,     Were claspd to that breast;     Far, far from each other     Our spirits have grown.     And what heart knows another?     Ah! who knows his own?     Blow, ye winds! lift me with you     I come to the wild.     Fold closely, O Nature!     Thine arms round thy child.     To thee only God granted     A heart ever new:     To all always open;     To all always true.     Ah, calm me! restore me     And dry up my tears     On thy high mountain platforms,     Where Morn first appears,     Where the white mists, for ever,     Are spread and upfurld;     In the stir of the forces     Whence issued the world.