TO MARY
1
I sleep with thee, and wake with thee,
And yet thou art not there:—
I fill my arms, with thoughts of thee,
And press the common air.—
Thy eyes are gazing upon mine,
When thou art out of sight;
My lips are always touching thine,
At morning, noon, and night.
2
I think, and speak of other things,
To keep my mind at rest:
But still to thee, my memory clings,
Like love in womans breast;—
I hide it from the worlds-wide eye;
And think, and speak contrary;
But soft, the wind comes from the sky,
And wispers tales of Mary.—
3
The night wind wispers in my ear,
The moon shines in my face;
A burden still of chilling fear,
I find in every place.—
The breeze is wispering in the bush;
And the dew-fall from the tree,
All; sighing on, and will not hush,
Some pleasant tales of thee.—
