Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/149

 And my temples are throbbing With madness again. The moonlight! the moonlight! The deep-winding bay! There are two on that strand, And a ship far away!

In its silence and beauty, Its passion and power, Love breathed o'er the land, Like the soul of a flower. The billows were chiming On pale yellow sands; And moonshine was gleaming On small ivory hands. There were bowers by the brook's brink, And flowers bursting free; There were hot lips to suck forth A lost soul from me!

Now, mountain and meadow, Frith, forest, and river, Are mingling with shadows— Are lost to me ever.