Page:Poems of Sentiment and Imagination.djvu/216

212 Often at her feet I'm sitting,
 * With my head upon her knee,

While she tells me dreams of beauty
 * In low words of melody;

And when my unskillful fingers
 * Strive her silvery lyre to wake,

She will smooth my tresses, smiling
 * At the discord which I make.

But of late days I have missed her—
 * The bright being of my love—

And perchance she's stolen pinions,
 * And has floated up above.

Tell me—have you ever met her—
 * Met the spirit of my song—

Have her wave-like footsteps glided
 * Through the city's worldly throng?

rose from her quiet sleep
 * To look out upon the night,

And the light that fell from the shining sky
 * Ne'er fell on a maid more bright:

For the youthful form in those robes of snow
 * Was full of a breathing grace,

And fashioned in perfect loveliness
 * Was the beauty of her face.

In the rosy palm of her dimpled hand
 * One red cheek nestling lay,

And smiles stole out from her coral lips
 * With that lily hand to play;