 | Poems |  |
65
SERENADE.
[The day-light has long been sunk under the billow]
The day-light has long been sunk under the billow,
And Zephyr its absence is mourning in sighs;
Then Dora, my dearest, arise from your pillow,
And make the night day with the sun of your eyes.
That, fairer than you, no one ever may prove,
The bright mould that form'd you, they've broken, my love;
And now, you alone can your image renew,
Then, oh! for creation's sake, rise, dearest, do!
And Zephyr its absence is mourning in sighs;
Then Dora, my dearest, arise from your pillow,
And make the night day with the sun of your eyes.
That, fairer than you, no one ever may prove,
The bright mould that form'd you, they've broken, my love;
And now, you alone can your image renew,
Then, oh! for creation's sake, rise, dearest, do!
66
Pretty star of my soul! heaven's stars all outshining;
Sweet dream of my slumbers! ah, love, pray you, rise;
Enchantress! all hearts in your fetters entwining,—
To my ears you are music, and light to my eyes!
To my anguish you're balm, to my pleasures you're bliss,
To my touch you are joy; there's the world in your kiss:
Day is not day if your presence I miss;
Ah, no! 'tis a night cold and moonless as this!
Sweet dream of my slumbers! ah, love, pray you, rise;
Enchantress! all hearts in your fetters entwining,—
To my ears you are music, and light to my eyes!
To my anguish you're balm, to my pleasures you're bliss,
To my touch you are joy; there's the world in your kiss:
Day is not day if your presence I miss;
Ah, no! 'tis a night cold and moonless as this!
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