Canto LXXXII
When I contemplate all alone,The life that had been thine below,And fix my thoughts on all the glowTo which thy crescent would have grown;
I see thee sitting crown’d with good,A central warmth diffusing blissIn glance and smile, and clasp and kiss,On all the branches of thy blood;
Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine;For now the day was drawing on,When thou should’st link thy life with oneOf mine own house, and boys of thine
Had babbled ‘Uncle’ on my knee;But that remorseless iron hourMade cypress of her orange flower,Despair of Hope, and earth of thee.
I seem to meet their least desire,To clap their cheeks, to call them mine.I see their unborn faces shineBeside the never-lighted fire.
I see myself an honour’d guest,Thy partner in the flowery walkOf letters, genial table-talk,Or deep dispute, and graceful jest:
While now thy prosperous labour fillsThe lips of men with honest praise,And sun by sun the happy daysDescend below the golden hills
With promise of a morn as fair;And all the train of bounteous hoursConduct by paths of growing powers,To reverence and the silver hair;
Till slowly worn her earthly robe,Her lavish mission richly wrought,Leaving great legacies of thought,Thy spirit should fail from off the globe;
What time mine own might also flee,As link’d with thine in love and fate,And, hovering o’er the dolorous straitTo the other shore, involved in thee,
Arrive at last the blessed goal,And he that died in Holy LandWould reach us out the shining hand,And take us as a single soul.
What reed was that on which I leant?Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wakeThe old bitterness again, and breakThe low beginnings of content.