 | A Face |  |
186
A FACE
By James D. Corrothers.
A face of dreams and roses
Pleads tenderly with me—
A sweet face that reposes
In death, so silently—
Thro' the deep gloom, she seeks my room,
From o'er the Sunset Sea.
Alas!
The silent and mystic sea!
Pleads tenderly with me—
A sweet face that reposes
In death, so silently—
Thro' the deep gloom, she seeks my room,
From o'er the Sunset Sea.
Alas!
The silent and mystic sea!
A face of dreams and roses,
Dainty as the woodlawns be,
Where every stream that flows is
A fairy rhapsody
Tinkling o'er rocks where sylvan flocks
Feed softly, tenderly.
My love,
So softly, tenderly.
Dainty as the woodlawns be,
Where every stream that flows is
A fairy rhapsody
Tinkling o'er rocks where sylvan flocks
Feed softly, tenderly.
My love,
So softly, tenderly.
A face of dreams and roses—
Calm as an evening star,
Which, when the long day closes,
Shines holy, faint, and far
O'er lonely leas, and moonlit seas,
And coves where the fairies are,
My dear,
Where the beautiful fairies are.
Calm as an evening star,
Which, when the long day closes,
Shines holy, faint, and far
O'er lonely leas, and moonlit seas,
And coves where the fairies are,
My dear,
Where the beautiful fairies are.
A memory, scattering roses,
She comes, from Dreamland blown—
I dream, and my soul reposes
Entranced on her fairy throne;
And—roses—roses—roses—
Drift on the moonlight, down.
O, Love!
On silvery moonlight, down.
She comes, from Dreamland blown—
I dream, and my soul reposes
Entranced on her fairy throne;
And—roses—roses—roses—
Drift on the moonlight, down.
O, Love!
On silvery moonlight, down.
O roses, gentle roses,
Ye die so soon, so soon!
Some live 'til summer closes,
But mine were plucked in June;
And life grew drear as the sea-hills sere
That gloom to the rising moon.
Ah, me!
To the dripping, and wan-faced moon!
Ye die so soon, so soon!
Some live 'til summer closes,
But mine were plucked in June;
And life grew drear as the sea-hills sere
That gloom to the rising moon.
Ah, me!
To the dripping, and wan-faced moon!
And I think when memory closes
Her weary eyes, a-tire,
To dream o'er her pale, dead roses,
Mid murmurings sad and dire,
How my Love lay dead; and my soul, from red,
Glows white in pain's altar-fire.
My soul
Glows white in pain's altar-fire!
Her weary eyes, a-tire,
To dream o'er her pale, dead roses,
Mid murmurings sad and dire,
How my Love lay dead; and my soul, from red,
Glows white in pain's altar-fire.
My soul
Glows white in pain's altar-fire!
| A Face | |