 | Virginalia ; or, songs of my summer nights |  |
SONG TO UNA OF AUSTER.
My soul was lifted half way up to Heaven
Upon the sweet tones of thy voice, dear Maiden!
Like some sweet golden Butterfly at even,
Bright Angel of the Flowers! with lips dew-laden,
Floating on incense-clouds from out the Bowers of Aiden.
Upon the sweet tones of thy voice, dear Maiden!
Like some sweet golden Butterfly at even,
Bright Angel of the Flowers! with lips dew-laden,
Floating on incense-clouds from out the Bowers of Aiden.
For thy celestial, joy-inspiring song
Brought to my heart the Halcyon bright to-morrow,
Which, coming, thou didst ever there prolong—
A Goshen of sweet peace which Heaven might borrow—
Where Joy forever dwelt—but where came never Sorrow.
Brought to my heart the Halcyon bright to-morrow,
Which, coming, thou didst ever there prolong—
A Goshen of sweet peace which Heaven might borrow—
Where Joy forever dwelt—but where came never Sorrow.
Singing of young Love in the Eden Days,
Which we, now, in the present time, call Olden,—
When all my heart was poured out in my Lays,
Like perfume from the flowers when new unfolden—
When silver truths fell from thy lips in words all golden.
Which we, now, in the present time, call Olden,—
When all my heart was poured out in my Lays,
Like perfume from the flowers when new unfolden—
When silver truths fell from thy lips in words all golden.
74
For, as the Wind doth purify the sea,—
The rivers are kept pure by their own motion;
So is my soul by thy sweet melody—
So is my heart by its own pure devotion,
Which flows to thee, sweet One! as rivers to the ocean.
The rivers are kept pure by their own motion;
So is my soul by thy sweet melody—
So is my heart by its own pure devotion,
Which flows to thee, sweet One! as rivers to the ocean.
Here, underneath thy dark locks, let me rest
My pensive head upon the snow-white billow
Of thine impassioned, love-distracted breast,
As calmly as the Swan upon the pillow
Of some clear, azure Lake beneath the Weeping Willow.
My pensive head upon the snow-white billow
Of thine impassioned, love-distracted breast,
As calmly as the Swan upon the pillow
Of some clear, azure Lake beneath the Weeping Willow.
| Virginalia ; or, songs of my summer nights | |