Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/339



hand's wild grasp, the dark flash of the eye, Like the troubled gleam of a winter's sky, The bosom's bitter throb, the half-choked sigh, When the parting hour is hurrying nigh, Are known but to those who love. Sad is that fateful hour, and pale the cheek, And fain the tongue would, but it cannot speak, And the cold lips will not move.

Oh, could the eyes find tears kind hope hath sprung, And could the lips but syllable a sound, Albeit to wail, the heart with passion wrung Would to its prisoned feeling thus give vent; But in any icy circle -they are bound, And when that breaks, the heart's last chord is rent!