14
LOST.
The night descends, the red flush fades,
The pines are black with gloom,—
I shut the window, and give thought
And olden memories room;
And, like a breath of rare perfume,
Stealing through sweet lush vines,
Come thoughts of days, bright summer days,
Amid the dark old pines.
The pines are black with gloom,—
I shut the window, and give thought
And olden memories room;
And, like a breath of rare perfume,
Stealing through sweet lush vines,
Come thoughts of days, bright summer days,
Amid the dark old pines.
LOST.
THE drifting rain came o'er the western hills,
The air was blind with spray;
To thund'ring rivers swelled the simple rills,
The roaring torrents drowned the grinding mills,
The mists obscured the day.
She trod with nimble feet the beaten track,
Up, up the mountain's steep,
Along the dingle deep, nor looked she back,
Though in her train the frozen rain
Leaped in a cataract.
The air was blind with spray;
To thund'ring rivers swelled the simple rills,
The roaring torrents drowned the grinding mills,
The mists obscured the day.
She trod with nimble feet the beaten track,
Up, up the mountain's steep,
Along the dingle deep, nor looked she back,
Though in her train the frozen rain
Leaped in a cataract.
The sheep were on the heights,—her lamb, her pet,
She called his gentle name;
And, through the flying drifts of cold and wet,
The heaving mists around her like a net,
She vanished like a flame.
She called his gentle name;
And, through the flying drifts of cold and wet,
The heaving mists around her like a net,
She vanished like a flame.
