Page:The city of dreadful night - and other poems (IA cityofdreadfulni00thomrich).pdf/190

 It dreameth of a palm-tree, Which far in the East alone In mournful silence standeth On its ridge of burning stone.

darling, thou art flowerlike, So tender, pure, and fair; I gaze on thee, and sadness Steals on me unaware:

I yearn to lay my hands then Upon thy head in prayer, That God will keep thee ever Thus tender, pure, and fair.

", where is the maiden sweet, Whom you once so sweetly sung, When the flames of mighty heat Filled your heart and fired your tongue?"

Ah, those flames no longer burn; Cold and drear the heart that fed; And this book is but the urn Of the ashes of love dead.