 | Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman |  |
99
TO THE MORNING-STAR.
“Fair crescent star, upborne on waves of light,—
Bud of the morning, that must fade so soon.”
Dalgoni.
Bud of the morning, that must fade so soon.”
Dalgoni.
Sweet Phosphor! star of Love and Hope,
Again I see thy silver horn
Rise o'er the dark and dewy slope
Of yonder hills that hide the morn.
Again I see thy silver horn
Rise o'er the dark and dewy slope
Of yonder hills that hide the morn.
All night the glooming shadows lay
So thick on valley, wave, and wold,
I scarce could deem the buried day
Would ever pierce their shrouding fold:
So thick on valley, wave, and wold,
I scarce could deem the buried day
Would ever pierce their shrouding fold:
Yet, even now, a line of light
Comes slowly surging o'er the dark;
And lo! thy crescent, floating bright
And buoyant as a fairy bark.
Comes slowly surging o'er the dark;
And lo! thy crescent, floating bright
And buoyant as a fairy bark.
But ah, the solemn stars of night,—
The distant stars that long have set,—
How can I, in thy nearer light
Of love and hope, their smile forget?—
The distant stars that long have set,—
100
Of love and hope, their smile forget?—
The stars that trembled through my dream,
That spoke in accents faint and far,
Can I forget their pensive beam,
For thine, my radiant morning-star?
That spoke in accents faint and far,
Can I forget their pensive beam,
For thine, my radiant morning-star?
No dawn-light in my soul can wake
One hope to make the world more fair;
No noon-tide ray illume the lake
Of dark remembrance, brooding there;
One hope to make the world more fair;
No noon-tide ray illume the lake
Of dark remembrance, brooding there;
But Night comes down the paling west,
With mystic glories on her brow:—
She lays her cold hand on my breast,
And bids, for me, the lotus blow:
With mystic glories on her brow:—
She lays her cold hand on my breast,
And bids, for me, the lotus blow:
She bears me on her Lethean tides
To lands by living waters fed:
She lifts the cloudy veil that hides
The dim campagnas of the dead.
To lands by living waters fed:
She lifts the cloudy veil that hides
The dim campagnas of the dead.
Down the long corridor of dreams,
She leads me silently away;
Till, through its shadowy portal, streams
The dawn of that diviner Day!
She leads me silently away;
Till, through its shadowy portal, streams
The dawn of that diviner Day!
1850.
| Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman | |