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a love poem.
The waters of that fatal sea,
Whose surges heave beside,
And lave with ceaseless, wailing tears,
The tomb where sleeps my bride.
Whose surges heave beside,
And lave with ceaseless, wailing tears,
The tomb where sleeps my bride.
III.
O couch! whereon I sought my rest,
Grief-bowed and passion-worn,
Soon as my limbs thy folds had pressed,
In spirit was I borne
At once, from that dark grave, to heaven!
Then pardoned, free I trod,
And knelt amid the ransomed ones
With her I loved, to God!
Grief-bowed and passion-worn,
Soon as my limbs thy folds had pressed,
In spirit was I borne
At once, from that dark grave, to heaven!
Then pardoned, free I trod,
And knelt amid the ransomed ones
With her I loved, to God!
IV.
It was so sweet that, even in dreams,
I knew the dream was vain.
Too soon, I said, the morning beams
Will bring back grief again.
(For dreams are gems which only shine,
Illusive, on Night's brow;—
O'er Day's pure forehead, clear and bright,
Such jewels may not glow.)
I knew the dream was vain.
Too soon, I said, the morning beams
Will bring back grief again.
(For dreams are gems which only shine,
Illusive, on Night's brow;—
O'er Day's pure forehead, clear and bright,
Such jewels may not glow.)
