dreams.
31
How swelled and burned within my heart
Fierce hate and fiery pride,—
My very soul rode like a bark
On the battle's stormy tide!
Fierce hate and fiery pride,—
My very soul rode like a bark
On the battle's stormy tide!
My pitying and all woman's soul!
O, no, it was not mine!
Perchance mine slumbered, or had left
Awhile its earthly shrine;
So the spirit of a Joan d'Arc
Stole in my sleeping frame,
And wrote her history on my heart,
In words of blood and flame.
O, no, it was not mine!
Perchance mine slumbered, or had left
Awhile its earthly shrine;
So the spirit of a Joan d'Arc
Stole in my sleeping frame,
And wrote her history on my heart,
In words of blood and flame.
My dead are with me in my dreams,
Rise from their still, lone home,—
But are they as I loved them here?
O Heaven, 't is thus they come!
Silent and cold,—the pulseless form
In burial garments dressed,
The pale hands holding burial flowers,
Close folded on the breast!
Rise from their still, lone home,—
But are they as I loved them here?
O Heaven, 't is thus they come!
Silent and cold,—the pulseless form
In burial garments dressed,
The pale hands holding burial flowers,
Close folded on the breast!
My living,—they in whose tried hearts
My wild, impassioned love
My wild, impassioned love
