Parting

Ye storm-winds of autumn!Who rush by, who shakeThe window, and ruffleThe gleam-lighted lake;Who cross to the hillsideThin-sprinkled with farms,Where the high woods strip sadlyTheir yellowing arms,--Ye are bound for the mountains!Ah! with you let me goWhere your cold, distant barrier,The vast range of snow,Through the loose clouds lifts dimlyIts 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 lawnLent it the music of its trees at dawn?Or was it from some sun-flecked mountain brookThat the sweet voice its upland clearness took?Ah! it comes nearer--Sweet notes, this way!

Hark! fast by the windowThe rushing winds go,To the ice-cumbered gorges,The vast seas of snow!There the torrents drive upwardTheir rock-strangled hum;There the avalanche thundersThe hoarse torrent dumb.--I come, O ye mountains!Ye torrents, I come!

But who is this, by the half-opened door,Whose figure casts a shadow on the floor?The sweet blue eyes--the soft, ash-colored hair--The cheeks that still their gentle paleness wear--The lovely lips, with their arched smile that tellsThe unconquered 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 goTo the clear, waning hill-side,Unspotted by snow,There to watch, o’er the sunk vale,The frore mountain wall,Where the niched snow-bed sprays downIts powdery fall.There its dusky blue clustersThe aconite spreads;There the pines slope, the cloud-stripsHung soft in their heads.No life but, at moments,The mountain bee’s hum.--I come, O ye mountains!Ye pine-woods, I come!

Forgive me! forgive me!Ah, Marguerite, fainWould these arms reach to clasp thee!But see! ’tis in vain.

In the void air, towards thee,My stretched arms are cast;But a sea rolls between us,--Our different past!

To the lips, ah! of othersThose lips have been prest,And others, ere I was,Were strained to that breast.

Far, far from each otherOur 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 grantedA heart ever new,--To all always open,To all always true.

Ah! calm me, restore me;And dry up my tearsOn thy high mountain platforms,Where morn first appears;

Where the white mists, forever,Are spread and upfurled,--In the stir of the forcesWhence issued the world.