 | My Lyrical Life |  |
LOVE-IN-IDLENESS.
We sit serenely 'neath the night,
As still as stars with swift delight;
In tears, that show how in Life's deep
The hidden pearls of beauty sleep!
And quiet, as of sleeping trees,
And silence, as of dreaming seas.
The channels of our bliss run filled,
Their faintest happy murmur stilled.
As still as stars with swift delight;
In tears, that show how in Life's deep
The hidden pearls of beauty sleep!
And quiet, as of sleeping trees,
And silence, as of dreaming seas.
The channels of our bliss run filled,
Their faintest happy murmur stilled.
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Upon thy forehead rests my palm,
And on my spirit rests thy calm.
I cannot see thy cheek, but know
Its tint of rose-bloom hath a glow
Like ruby light, and richly lies
The dew i' the shadow of thine eyes:
Deep eyes! dear wells of tenderness,
That ask how they may soothliest bless!
And on my spirit rests thy calm.
I cannot see thy cheek, but know
Its tint of rose-bloom hath a glow
Like ruby light, and richly lies
The dew i' the shadow of thine eyes:
Deep eyes! dear wells of tenderness,
That ask how they may soothliest bless!
Warm incense like the soul o' the South,
Is round us, and thy damask mouth
With the sweet spirit of its breath,
Dissolves me in delicious death.
Musk-roses breathing in the gloom,
Drop fragrance fainting in the room;
Such sensuous sadness fills the air,
Ripe life a bloom of dew doth wear.
Is round us, and thy damask mouth
With the sweet spirit of its breath,
Dissolves me in delicious death.
Musk-roses breathing in the gloom,
Drop fragrance fainting in the room;
Such sensuous sadness fills the air,
Ripe life a bloom of dew doth wear.
The harping hand hath dulled the lyre
Of thrilling heartstrings—by their fire
That droops, the dreamy Passions doze
In large luxuriance of repose.
While we our fields of pleasure reap,
Our Babes lie in the wood of Sleep:
One, first love's dream of beauty wrought!
One the more perfect afterthought.
Of thrilling heartstrings—by their fire
That droops, the dreamy Passions doze
In large luxuriance of repose.
While we our fields of pleasure reap,
Our Babes lie in the wood of Sleep:
One, first love's dream of beauty wrought!
One the more perfect afterthought.
We sit with silent glory crowned,
And Love's arms wound like heaven round:
Or on rich clouds our spirits swim
The summer twilight cool and dim.
I only see—that thou art near;
I only feel—I have thee dear!
I only hear thy beating heart,
I only know we cannot part.
And Love's arms wound like heaven round:
Or on rich clouds our spirits swim
The summer twilight cool and dim.
I only see—that thou art near;
I only feel—I have thee dear!
I only hear thy beating heart,
I only know we cannot part.
| My Lyrical Life | |