Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/224

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A very boy, I yet recall The dark light of thine eye's charm'd thrall; Beneath thy worshipp'd cypress leant, And flowers with thy breathing blent, Less pure, less beautiful than thou, I see thee; and I hear thee now Singing sweet to the twilight dim— Could it be sin?—thy vesper hymn.

Burnt a sweet light in that fair shrine, At once too earthly, too divine; The heart's vain struggle to create An Eden not for mortal state.

Love, who shall say that thou art not The dearest blessing of our lot?