Page:Poems of Sentiment and Imagination.djvu/68

64 For there was not the smallest thing

That was admired by thee,

To which my spirit does not cling

Watchfully, tenderly.

I sit beneath the evening sky,

And look upon the moon,

And the fitful breeze comes flutt'ring by,

With a low and hollow tune;

And I see our beacon star come up,

And rise above the trees,

And the dew is in the Iris' cup,

But what to me are these?

I know thou wilt not come again,

As was thy wont of old;

And I press my burning brow in pain,

And wish the night were told:

For the moonlight teems with memory,

And the stars burn on my sight;

And every thing doth talk of thee,

In the stillness of the night.

In dreams I sometimes see thy face,

But nothing kind is there;

I meet thy mute, forgetful gaze,

With still but deep despair.

The sunliglit is too bright for me,

And pleasant days seem long;

Laughter is but a mockery,

And the voice of happy song.

I do not weep, but crush my heart,

That I may seem to be

Unwounded by the poison dart

That was prepared for me.

My spirit walks the earth apart,

Weary and alone,