 | The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes |  |
SIX VERSES
I loved her, but there came a blight,
That seared my brain and chilled my heart;
I love her, yet I do not grieve
That we are far apart.
And still I hope, before I die,
To look into her clear blue eye.
That seared my brain and chilled my heart;
I love her, yet I do not grieve
That we are far apart.
And still I hope, before I die,
To look into her clear blue eye.
I could not meet her in the place,
Where once in better hours we met,
And look unaltered in her face,
Fresh in its beauty yet;—
Nor speak unmoved the once loved name,
Now burning with the brand of shame.
Where once in better hours we met,
And look unaltered in her face,
Fresh in its beauty yet;—
Nor speak unmoved the once loved name,
Now burning with the brand of shame.
The livid waves are murmuring low,
The lightning sleeps in yonder cloud;
But soon the rushing winds shall blow,
And thunders rattle loud.
O then, upon the shivering sea,
I would I were alone with thee!
The lightning sleeps in yonder cloud;
But soon the rushing winds shall blow,
And thunders rattle loud.
O then, upon the shivering sea,
I would I were alone with thee!
Alone with thee—but sea and air
Should raise around the dirge of sin,
And Memory's mocking lip lay bare
Her poisoned pangs within;
And tardy Vengeance come at last
Upon the billow and the blast.
Should raise around the dirge of sin,
And Memory's mocking lip lay bare
Her poisoned pangs within;
And tardy Vengeance come at last
Upon the billow and the blast.
Then shouldst thou see how sleepless wo
Can scourge the lazy steps of time,
And hear, in accents calm and low,
The tale of buried crime.
Thou, who my earliest love didst share,
With me should die—like me despair.
Can scourge the lazy steps of time,
And hear, in accents calm and low,
The tale of buried crime.
Thou, who my earliest love didst share,
With me should die—like me despair.
Yet when the walled and tottering waves
Hung o'er us in their arching sweep,
If I could hear one word of grief,
For wrongs so dark and deep,
Thou fiends had in thy bosom slept,
I could but weep as once I wept.
Hung o'er us in their arching sweep,
If I could hear one word of grief,
For wrongs so dark and deep,
Thou fiends had in thy bosom slept,
I could but weep as once I wept.
| The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes | |