 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
IV. I LOOKED NOT—I SIGHED NOT.
I look'd not—I sigh'd not—I dared not betray
The wild storm of feeling that strove to have way,
For I knew that each sign of the sorrow I felt
Her soul to fresh pity and passion would melt;
And calm was my voice, and averted my eyes,
As I parted from all that in being I prize.
The wild storm of feeling that strove to have way,
For I knew that each sign of the sorrow I felt
Her soul to fresh pity and passion would melt;
And calm was my voice, and averted my eyes,
As I parted from all that in being I prize.
I pined but one moment that form to enfold,
Yet the hand that touch'd hers like the marble was cold.
I heard her voice falter a timid farewell,
Nor trembled, though soft on my spirit it fell;
And she knew not, she dream'd not the anguish of soul
Which only my pity for her could control.
Yet the hand that touch'd hers like the marble was cold.
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Nor trembled, though soft on my spirit it fell;
And she knew not, she dream'd not the anguish of soul
Which only my pity for her could control.
It is over,—the loveliest dream of delight
That ever illumined a wanderer's night!
Yet one gleam of comfort will brighten my way,
Though mournful and desolate ever I stray;
It is this, that to her—to my idol, I spared
The pang, that her love could have soften'd and shared!
That ever illumined a wanderer's night!
Yet one gleam of comfort will brighten my way,
Though mournful and desolate ever I stray;
It is this, that to her—to my idol, I spared
The pang, that her love could have soften'd and shared!
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |