Delight

ONCE more I looked upon her face,
Again her beating step I caught,
She who was young when Time, grown old,
Seemed but to breathe where fold on fold
Of parchment, or the austere grace
In stone by ancient limners wrought,
Revealed his life foregone, long hid
In missal, shaft and pyramid.
Earth could not bury her, nor saints
Dethrone her by their meek unruth,
Nor sages weight her with their sooth,
Nor martyrs plague by gentle plaints,
Nor the years crush her under glooms
Of old and cold Etruscan tombs.

Delight, her name. I could not doubt
Whether God gave it, or the earth
Had wrought it like a gorgeous birth,
A bright mosaic patterned out
Of colors from the necks of doves,
From laurel leaves and flowers and gems
Whereof to deck with diadems
The vernal year ringed round with Loves,
And rosy shapes at stillest even,
Wide-winged athwart the cloud-warm heaven.

Here had I come and here was she.
Here we took hands and stayed awhile,
I rapt upon her still, strange smile,
Her voice that fell deliciously,
So that in darkness or the rain
Of tears I need not pine again, —
Her voice set to some ancient tune,
Ancient — and yet I cannot say How new it was, how of the day
That mounts to heat this very June.

Walked she alone, or were there three,
Delight and Love and Italy?