 | The lost pleiad ; and other poems |  |
THE VOICE OF MY DELIGHT.
I hear the soft, Lethéan song
Of many falling streams,
Winding oblivious, as they roll along,
Beneath the moonlight's rain of beams.
I hear the plaintive Nightingale
Singing with all his might,
Until his music seems to flood the vale
Afar with deluge-like delight.
Of many falling streams,
Winding oblivious, as they roll along,
Beneath the moonlight's rain of beams.
I hear the plaintive Nightingale
Singing with all his might,
Until his music seems to flood the vale
Afar with deluge-like delight.
A rose-bud, in his song's sweet rain,
Now bathes her drooping head,
Which so dissolves her beating heart of pain,
That she seems languishing as dead.
A cascade of sweet, mournful plaint,
He pours out through the grove,
As if his over-burthened heart would faint
With the sweet summer-heat of love.
Now bathes her drooping head,
Which so dissolves her beating heart of pain,
That she seems languishing as dead.
A cascade of sweet, mournful plaint,
He pours out through the grove,
As if his over-burthened heart would faint
With the sweet summer-heat of love.
But now the Nightingale is still—
A Spirit from above
Has drowned to silence each pellucid rill,
With the soft music of her love.
Her soft breath, like an odorous breeze,
Whispers to me to-night;
I am the soul of all such sounds as these—
It was the Voice of my Delight.
A Spirit from above
Has drowned to silence each pellucid rill,
With the soft music of her love.
Her soft breath, like an odorous breeze,
Whispers to me to-night;
I am the soul of all such sounds as these—
It was the Voice of my Delight.
Oaky Grove, Ga., June 8th, 1840.
| The lost pleiad ; and other poems | |