The Ring of Amethyst

								


“THE RING AND THE BOOK.”

THE RING.----TO GEORGE ELIOT.


As she, thy Dorothea, loved of thee,

    Refused to wear in careless ornament

    The amethysts and emeralds that lent
Their charm to other women;--even as she,
Turning one day by chance the golden key

    Of their close casket, started as they sent

    Swift, glowing rays to greet her, and then bent
To lift them in her white hands lovingly;--



         *       *       *       *       *


O great of heart, so calmly dost thou stand

    In the proud splendor of thy fame, and bring
Thy glorious gifts to all the listening land,--

    Thou canst not greatly care what I may sing!

    Yet since I hold to thee my amethyst ring,
Take it one little moment in thy hand!

THE BOOK.----To D. M. R.


Dear, if this little book of thine and mine

    Could bring me fame as glorious and rare

    As that whose splendid laurels shine so fair
For Dorothea,----it were less divine
A gift than this most priceless love of thine.

    Since, then, that came to me, why now despair

    Of laurel? though I may not hope to wear
Laurel or myrtle as the precious sign
Of any proud desert. Yet if I might
Not find that love could keep its holy tryst
With fame, how quickly would I yield the bright

    New dream, to keep my ring of amethyst:

    The memory of that day when love first kissed
The fingers of this hand wherewith I write!

Ἀμέθυστος
TO THE CRITIC.


I know full well I cannot pour for you

    The nectar of the gods;--no epic wine

    Is this I bring, to tempt you with its fine
Poetic flavor, as of grapes that grew
In the young vineyards when the world was new,
And only poets wrote;--a slender vine
You scarce will care for, bore these grapes of mine,
From which frail hands have crushed the purple dew.

    Yet if from what I bring you, there is missed

    The lyric loveliness of some who write,

    The passionate fervor and the keen delight
Of eloquent fire in some to whom you list,--
Think it may be, not that the gift is slight,
But that my cup is rimmed with amethyst!

NARCISSUS.
TO THE READER.


If haply in these pages you should read

    Aught that seems true to human nature, true

    To heavenly instincts;--if they speak to you
Of love, of sorrow, faith without a creed,
Of doubt, of hope, of longing,--or indeed

    Of any pain or joy the poet knew

    A heart could feel,--think not to find a clue
To his own heart--its gladness or its need.
From a deep spring with tangled weeds o’ergrown

    The poet parts the leaves; if they who pass,

    Bending to look down through the tall wild grass,
By winds of heaven faintly overblown,

    Should start to see there, dimly in a glass,
Some face,----’tis not the poet’s, but their own!

PROEM.


I wonder, little book, if after all

    I greatly care whether with praise or blame

    Men turn your leaves. Once, the fair hope of fame