Page:The New Penelope.djvu/318

312 O, beautiful hills that stand

Serene 'twixt earth and heaven, with the grace

Of both to make you grand,—

Your loveliness leaves place

For nothing fairer; fair

And complete beyond compare.

O, lovely purple hills, O, first day of November,

Be sure that I remember!

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.