 | From the Hills of Dream |  |
112
Pulse of my Heart.
Are these your eyes, Ian,
That look into mine?
Is this smile, this laugh,
Thine?
That look into mine?
Is this smile, this laugh,
Thine?
Heart of me, dear,
O pulse of my heart,
This is our child, our child—
And...we apart!
O pulse of my heart,
This is our child, our child—
And...we apart!
Wrought of thy life, Ian,
Wrought in my womb,
Never to feel thy kiss!—
Ah, bitter doom!
Wrought in my womb,
Never to feel thy kiss!—
Ah, bitter doom!
Live, live, thou laughing boy,
We meet again!
Here do we part, we twain:
I to my death-sweet pain,
Thou to thy span of joy.
We meet again!
Here do we part, we twain:
I to my death-sweet pain,
Thou to thy span of joy.
Hush, hush: within thine eyes
His eyes I see.
Sure, death is Paradise
If so my soul can be,
Ian, with thee!
His eyes I see.
Sure, death is Paradise
If so my soul can be,
Ian, with thee!
| From the Hills of Dream | |