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a fragment.
The trophy on thy breast, than idly pluck
A thousand meek-faced daisies by the way?
How dost thou shudder at Love's gentle tones,
As though a serpent's hiss were in thine ear,
Albeit thy heart throbs echo to each word!
Why wilt not rest, O weary wanderer,
Upon the couch of flowers Love spreads for thee,
On banks of sunshine? Voices silver-toned
Shall lull thy soul with strange, wild harmonies,—
Rock thee to sleep upon the waves of song;
Hope shall watch o'er thee with her breath of dreams;
Joy hover near, impatient for thy waking,
Her quick wing glancing through the fragrant air.
A thousand meek-faced daisies by the way?
How dost thou shudder at Love's gentle tones,
As though a serpent's hiss were in thine ear,
Albeit thy heart throbs echo to each word!
Why wilt not rest, O weary wanderer,
Upon the couch of flowers Love spreads for thee,
On banks of sunshine? Voices silver-toned
Shall lull thy soul with strange, wild harmonies,—
Rock thee to sleep upon the waves of song;
Hope shall watch o'er thee with her breath of dreams;
Joy hover near, impatient for thy waking,
Her quick wing glancing through the fragrant air.
Why dost thou pause hard by the rose-wreathed gate,
Why turn thee from the paradise of youth,
Where love's immortal summer blooms and glows,
And wrap thyself in coldness as a shroud?
Perchance 't is well for thee,—yet does the flame
That glows with heat intense, and mounts toward heaven,
As fitly emblem holiest purity,
As the still snow-wreath on the mountain's brow.
Why turn thee from the paradise of youth,
Where love's immortal summer blooms and glows,
And wrap thyself in coldness as a shroud?
Perchance 't is well for thee,—yet does the flame
That glows with heat intense, and mounts toward heaven,
As fitly emblem holiest purity,
As the still snow-wreath on the mountain's brow.
Thou darest not say I love, and yet thou lovest,
And think'st to crush the mighty yearning down,
And think'st to crush the mighty yearning down,
