Lyrics of the Under World | ||
83
ALICE.
Tomorrow 's but a dream, dear Alice,
In truth, it never appears;
The past, a tenantless old palace,
Where hope lies tombed in tears;
The urn is broken, Alice,
Whence incense rose above;
But you may see, if you will, today,
The magical haunts of love.
In truth, it never appears;
The past, a tenantless old palace,
Where hope lies tombed in tears;
The urn is broken, Alice,
Whence incense rose above;
But you may see, if you will, today,
The magical haunts of love.
My fancy sees a chalice,
A harp all strung, attuned,
A famed, enchanted palace,
Where Cupid oft communed;
The theme of his dreaming, Alice,
In waking or sleeping the same,
A glory that ever dazzles,
Till it sets the soul a-flame.
A harp all strung, attuned,
A famed, enchanted palace,
Where Cupid oft communed;
The theme of his dreaming, Alice,
In waking or sleeping the same,
A glory that ever dazzles,
Till it sets the soul a-flame.
84
Like the burning bush on Horeb,
Or lit phosphoric seas,
The dream is metamorphosed,
And Cupid makes wild pleas,
For a glance of your dark eyes, Alice,
And a touch of your lips, my dear,
For all the bliss of caressing,
Laughter, and song, and cheer.
Or lit phosphoric seas,
The dream is metamorphosed,
And Cupid makes wild pleas,
For a glance of your dark eyes, Alice,
And a touch of your lips, my dear,
For all the bliss of caressing,
Laughter, and song, and cheer.
'Tis to you and none other, Alice,
My thought reverts in its flight,
A little perhaps out of ballas',
Perhaps with too much delight;
So crude, so humble and callous
That a message it scarce can bear,
From a heart that wears your image,
And the passion that fixed it there.
My thought reverts in its flight,
A little perhaps out of ballas',
Perhaps with too much delight;
So crude, so humble and callous
That a message it scarce can bear,
From a heart that wears your image,
And the passion that fixed it there.
85
Come thou with me, dear Alice,
To where there's building for thee
A loved, charmed, magical palace,
Hard by the Mexic sea;
Where date, and spice and lemon
Doth blow perpetually,
By that enchanted palace
That looks out over the sea.
To where there's building for thee
A loved, charmed, magical palace,
Hard by the Mexic sea;
Where date, and spice and lemon
Doth blow perpetually,
By that enchanted palace
That looks out over the sea.
Tomorrow? That's cruel, Alice,
Why speak of a day that is not?
That spoils the bliss of living,
Makes mine a miserable lot,
And love's enchanted palace
A wild and desolate place;
No land of dates and flowers
Wert blessed without thy grace.
Why speak of a day that is not?
That spoils the bliss of living,
Makes mine a miserable lot,
And love's enchanted palace
A wild and desolate place;
No land of dates and flowers
Wert blessed without thy grace.
Lyrics of the Under World | ||