Page:Cheskian Anthology.pdf/201

 But soon—too soon—that bliss has been o'ercast,

Which made me the world’s envy—now the frost,

The silver frost of sorrow malies a waste

Of my once glowing spirit—All is lost.

will I prize thy love—the love I've sworn,

That love shall lead through immortality.

Think not that white-arm'd maidens' smile or scorn,

Can for an instant lure my thoughts from thee.

No dimples, howsoever lovely—grace,

Howe'er majestic—pearly teeth in rows—

Mouth breathing sweets—Can these—can these efface

Thy memory? Never!—or thy sway oppose?—

the night's silence—at the twilight's dawn,

Whene'er I gird my sabre to my side—

When eve around the hills her clouds has drawn—

Then—always—shall I think of thee—and glide

In fancy to thy presence—midst the roar

Of cannons—and the flash of swords—bud hiss

Of bullets—while like seeds of thistles o'er

Torn limbs fly by—thy love shall be my bliss.