A Sketch

'Emelie, that fayrer was to seene Than is the lilye on hys stalke grene..... Uprose the sun and uprose Emelie.' DOST thou thus love me, O thou beautiful? So beautiful, that by thy side I seem Like a great ducky cloud beside a star: Yet thou creep'st o'er its edges, and it rests On its lone path, the slow deep-hearted cloud-- Then opes a rift and lets thee enter in; And with thy beauty shining on its breast, Feels no more its own blackness--thou art fair. Dost thou thus love me, O thou all beloved, In whose large store the very meanest coin Would out-buy my whole wealth? Yet here thou comest Like a kind heiress from her purple and down Uprising, who for pity cannot sleep, But goes forth to the stranger at her gate-- The beggared stranger at her beauteous gate-- And clothes and feeds; scarce blest till she has blest. Dost thou thus love me, O thou pure of heart, Whose very looks are prayers? What couldst thou see In this forsaken pool by the yew-wood's side, To sit down at its bank, and dip thy hand, Saying, 'it is so clear!'--And lo, erelong Its blackness caught the shimmer of they wings, Its slimes slid downward from thy stainless palm, Its depths grew still that there thy form might rise. O beautiful! O well-beloved! O rich In all that makes my need! I lay me down I' the shadow of thy love, and feel no pain. The cloud floats on, thee glittering on its breast, The beggar wears thy purple as his own: The noisome waves, made calm, creep to thy feet Rejoicing that they yet can image thee, And beyond thee, God's heaven, thick-sown with stars.