 | Poems by William D. Howells |  |
127
THE DOUBT.
She sits beside the low window,
In the pleasant evening-time,
With her face turned to the sunset,
Reading a book of rhyme.
In the pleasant evening-time,
With her face turned to the sunset,
Reading a book of rhyme.
And the wine-light of the sunset,
Stolen into the dainty nook,
Where she sits in her sacred beauty,
Lies crimson on the book.
Stolen into the dainty nook,
Where she sits in her sacred beauty,
Lies crimson on the book.
O beautiful eyes so tender,
Brown eyes so tender and dear,
Did you leave your reading a moment
Just now, as I passed near?
Brown eyes so tender and dear,
Did you leave your reading a moment
Just now, as I passed near?
Maybe, 't is the sunset flushes
Her features, so lily-pale;
Maybe, 't is the lover's passion,
She reads of in the tale.
Her features, so lily-pale;
Maybe, 't is the lover's passion,
She reads of in the tale.
O darling, and darling, and darling,
If I dared to trust my thought;
If I dared to believe what I must not,
Believe what no one ought,—
If I dared to trust my thought;
128
Believe what no one ought,—
We would read together the poem
Of the Love that never died,
The passionate, world-old story
Come true, and glorified.
Of the Love that never died,
The passionate, world-old story
Come true, and glorified.
| Poems by William D. Howells | |