 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
283
SINGING AT TWILIGHT.
You sang the olden songs, and, sadly dreaming,
I lay and listened, while you thought I slept;
And if the tears were from my eyelids streaming,
You saw them not, and so I freely wept.
I lay and listened, while you thought I slept;
And if the tears were from my eyelids streaming,
You saw them not, and so I freely wept.
Round us the silent, shadowy night was stealing;
You were a voice alone within the dark;
And from life's hardened crust a tender feeling
Broke, like a blossom, through the rugged bark.
You were a voice alone within the dark;
And from life's hardened crust a tender feeling
Broke, like a blossom, through the rugged bark.
You were again a young and blushing maiden,
Who leaned upon my breast and breathed your love,
And I, no more with disappointments laden,
Seemed, as of yore, beside you in the grove.
Who leaned upon my breast and breathed your love,
And I, no more with disappointments laden,
Seemed, as of yore, beside you in the grove.
The sky above us was serenely tender,
The moon shone softly gleaming through the trees;
Clasped heart to heart in Love's complete surrender,
Life seemed an island in enchanted seas.
The moon shone softly gleaming through the trees;
Clasped heart to heart in Love's complete surrender,
Life seemed an island in enchanted seas.
284
Dim longings, vague desires, like breaths from heaven,
Thrilled all our being with a strange unrest;
And all the finest strings that God hath given
Trembled to voiceless music in the breast.
Thrilled all our being with a strange unrest;
And all the finest strings that God hath given
Trembled to voiceless music in the breast.
Your hand's electric fire again ran through me,
I breathed the hyacinth odor of your hair;
Your soul in long sweet kisses clung unto me,
And filled me with a rapturous despair.
I breathed the hyacinth odor of your hair;
Your soul in long sweet kisses clung unto me,
And filled me with a rapturous despair.
Your voice had ceased; yet still around me fluttered
The visions that your songs had raised in me;
When—“Mr. Jones,” cried Jeames—“Curse Jones,” I muttered,
And you—“Bring in the lights; 't is time for tea.”
The visions that your songs had raised in me;
When—“Mr. Jones,” cried Jeames—“Curse Jones,” I muttered,
And you—“Bring in the lights; 't is time for tea.”
I was again an old hard-hearted sinner,
And you were fifty, and you wore a cap;
Laughing, you said to Jones, “After his dinner,
You see, the old man likes to take his nap.”
And you were fifty, and you wore a cap;
Laughing, you said to Jones, “After his dinner,
You see, the old man likes to take his nap.”
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |