Page:Poems by Frances Fuller Victor.djvu/95

 WAITING.

I cannot wean my wayward heart from waiting,

Though the steps watched for never come anear;

The wearying want clings to it unabating—

The fruitless wish for presences once dear.

No fairer eve e'er blessed a poet's vision,

No softer airs e'er kissed a fevered brow,

No scene more truly could be called Elysian,

Than this which holds my gaze enchanted now.

And yet I pine;—this beautiful completeness

Is incomplete, to my desiring heart;

'Tis Beauty's form, without her soul of sweetness—

The pure, but chiseled loveliness of art.

There is no longer pleasure in emotion.

I envy those dead souls no touch can thrill,

Who "painted ships upon a painted ocean,"—

Seem to be moved, yet are forever still.

Where are they fled?—they whose delightful voices,

Whose very footsteps had a charmed fall:

No more, no more their sound my heart rejoices,

Change, death, and distance part me now from all.

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