A golden broach: beneath an emerald plane Sits Diotima, teaching him that died Of hemlock; our device; wrought to the life; For there are schools for all." "And yet" I said. Dabbling a shameless hand with shameful jest, Knowledge is knowledge, and this matter hangs : Nor willing men should come among us, learnt, For was, and is, and will be, are but is ; And all creation is one act at once, The birth of light: but we that are not all, As parts, can see but parts, now this, now that, And live, perforce, from thought to thought, and make One act a phantom of succession: thus Our weakness somehow shapes the shadow, Time; But in the shadow will we work, and mould The woman to the fuller day." She spake With kindled eyes: we rode a league beyond, And, o'er a bridge of pinewood crossing, came On flowery levels underneath the crag, Full of all beauty. "O how sweet" I said (For I was half-oblivious of my mask) "To linger here with one that loved us." "Yea" She answer'd "or with fair philosophies That lift the fancy; for indeed these fields Are lovely, lovelier not the Elysian lawns, Where paced the Demigods of old, and saw "Pitch our pavilion here upon the sward; Lay out the viands." At the word, they raised With fair Corinna's triumph; here she stood, With mine affianced. Many a little hand In the dark crag: and then we turn'd, we wound About the cliffs, the copses, out and in, Hammering and clinking, chattering stony names Of shale and hornblende, rag and trap and tuff, Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the Sun Grew broader toward his death and fell, and all The rosy heights came out above the lawns. THE splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O love, they die in yon rich sky, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. IV. HERE sinks the nebulous star we call the Sun, If that hypothesis of theirs be sound" Said Ida; "let us down and rest;" and we Down from the lean and wrinkled precipices, By every coppice-feather'd chasm and cleft, Dropt thro' the ambrosial gloom to where below No bigger than a glow-worm shone the tent Lamp-lit from the inner. Once she lean'd on me, Descending; once or twice she lent her hand, And blissful palpitations in the blood, Stirring a sudden transport rose and fell. But when we planted level feet, and dipt Beneath the satin dome and enter'd in, |