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WE two stood simply friend-like side by side, Viewing a twilight country far and wide, Till she at length broke silence. “How it towers Yonder, the ruin o’er this vale of ours! The West’s faint flare behind it so relieves Its rugged outline—sight perhaps deceives, Or I could almost fancy that I see A branch wave plain—belike some wind-sown tree Chance-rooted where a missing turret was. What would I give for the perspective glass At home, to make out if ’tis really so! Has Ruskin noticed here at Asolo That certain weed-growths on the ravaged wall Seem” . . . something that I could not say at all, My thought being rather—as absorbed she sent Look onward after look from eyes distent With longing to reach Heaven’s gate left ajar— “Oh, fancies that might be, oh, facts that are! What of a wilding? By you stands, and may So stand unnoticed till the judgment Day, One who, if once aware that your regard Claimed what his heart holds,—woke, as from its sward The flower, the dormant passion, so to speak— Then what a rush of life would startling wreak Revenge on your inapprehensive stare While, from the ruin and the West’s faint flare, You let your eyes meet mine, touch what you term Quietude—that’s an universe in germ— The dormant passion needing but a look To burst into immense life!” “No, the book Which noticed how the wall-growths wave,” said she, “Was not by Ruskin.” I said, “Vernon Lee?” |