 | The Poems of John Rollin Ridge -- A reproduction of the 1868
publication plus fugitive poems and notes. |  |
DO I LOVE THEE?
If I could love my God as well,
'T would build for me a heavenly throne;
But, when I raise my eyes to HIM,
I see thy own sweet form alone;
And, dreaming of the harps of Heaven,
I hear but thy melodious tone.
'T would build for me a heavenly throne;
But, when I raise my eyes to HIM,
I see thy own sweet form alone;
And, dreaming of the harps of Heaven,
I hear but thy melodious tone.
Thou stealest upon me silently,
And tak'st possession of my heart,
And ere my breast can question aught,
I find thee of myself a part--
Commingling with my blood and soul,
My own life's purer life thou art!
And tak'st possession of my heart,
And ere my breast can question aught,
I find thee of myself a part--
Commingling with my blood and soul,
My own life's purer life thou art!
Oft in yen mountain's woodiest scene
I dream of some sweet spirit-bride,
So beautiful in mental grace,
She seems Creation's joy and pride;
And, when I hear her footsteps near,
I see thy image by my side.
I dream of some sweet spirit-bride,
So beautiful in mental grace,
She seems Creation's joy and pride;
And, when I hear her footsteps near,
I see thy image by my side.
Oh, many a dream I've had, sweet one,
And thou hast been the living light
Which still hath lit my fancy's realm,
And beautified the lonely night--
The night whose varying shapes assumed
The witching smile and image bright.
And thou hast been the living light
Which still hath lit my fancy's realm,
And beautified the lonely night--
The night whose varying shapes assumed
The witching smile and image bright.
At times, when fever pains my brow,
A fair-faced, blue-eyed angel bends
Above my tortured form, and smiles
So sweetly on me that it lends
A beauty unto pain, and makes
Me rank disease among my friends.
A fair-faced, blue-eyed angel bends
Above my tortured form, and smiles
So sweetly on me that it lends
A beauty unto pain, and makes
Me rank disease among my friends.
How have I thrilled, as to my lips
Her own have tenderly been prest,
And drank the life of her warm heart
And love immortal from her breast--
But drained it not, for still it rose
A fountain pure and ever blest.
Her own have tenderly been prest,
And drank the life of her warm heart
And love immortal from her breast--
But drained it not, for still it rose
A fountain pure and ever blest.
| The Poems of John Rollin Ridge -- A reproduction of the 1868
publication plus fugitive poems and notes. | |