98
THE WRECKED LIFE.
The burning heart of red autumnal woods,—
The flushing pomp of sunset skies—a blaze
Of fierce, wild, hurrying fire, as when upbursts
Some city's conflagration, 'mid the hush
And darkness of the night—commingled flame
Of still pale glories and of lurid light—
So gorgeous, magical, and strangely fair
That lady's face!
None read the meaning of its smiles, and none
Could trace the passionate and haunting grief
Which wrote its sad defeature on her brow,
And hollowed out the opal arch whence shone
Inviolate the sorrows of her eyes.
Sometimes a thought like a warm Afric wind,
Which with its breath makes vermeil tardy blooms,
Hid from the sun in lone Sicilian vales,
Would redden o'er her cheek, then all too soon
The shadows darkened and the glow died out—
The flushing pomp of sunset skies—a blaze
Of fierce, wild, hurrying fire, as when upbursts
Some city's conflagration, 'mid the hush
And darkness of the night—commingled flame
Of still pale glories and of lurid light—
So gorgeous, magical, and strangely fair
That lady's face!
None read the meaning of its smiles, and none
Could trace the passionate and haunting grief
Which wrote its sad defeature on her brow,
And hollowed out the opal arch whence shone
Inviolate the sorrows of her eyes.
Sometimes a thought like a warm Afric wind,
Which with its breath makes vermeil tardy blooms,
Hid from the sun in lone Sicilian vales,
Would redden o'er her cheek, then all too soon
The shadows darkened and the glow died out—
