 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
THE BLUE HOURS.
My favourite season, you should know, sweet madam,
Is not when sunlight falls,
Nor when to stroll with some blest son of Adam,
Thee, darling, even calls;
It is not when the festive speech is spoken,
And friends are gathered round,
With jest and laughing sound,
To toast the fair, and social bread is broken;
But when with silent thrill
Each earthly voice is still,
And early morning brings with magic powers
Blue hours.
Is not when sunlight falls,
Nor when to stroll with some blest son of Adam,
Thee, darling, even calls;
It is not when the festive speech is spoken,
And friends are gathered round,
With jest and laughing sound,
To toast the fair, and social bread is broken;
But when with silent thrill
Each earthly voice is still,
And early morning brings with magic powers
Blue hours.
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Yes, I am happy, if alone, unbothered
By the most tender talk,
When with bold front (in blanket base not smothered)
I hear the spirits walk;
In fearful rapture then I look, and listen
With ears both open wide,
As ghostly garments glide,
And in the glooming dreadful faces glisten;
My flesh begins to creep,
From haunted lands of sleep
Descend upon me, like uncanny showers,
Blue hours.
By the most tender talk,
When with bold front (in blanket base not smothered)
I hear the spirits walk;
In fearful rapture then I look, and listen
With ears both open wide,
As ghostly garments glide,
And in the glooming dreadful faces glisten;
My flesh begins to creep,
From haunted lands of sleep
Descend upon me, like uncanny showers,
Blue hours.
Then even the prettiest woman blue is painted,
By that cadaverous light,
The purest innocent is all unsainted
In nimbus of blue night;
And on round cheek the fairest reddest roses,
That shamed the sunset hue,
Are changed to ghastly blue,
That does not spare the most celestial noses;
The very snow, that slips
As kisses on dead lips,
Assumes, with awful and unearthly dowers,
Blue hours.
By that cadaverous light,
The purest innocent is all unsainted
In nimbus of blue night;
And on round cheek the fairest reddest roses,
That shamed the sunset hue,
Are changed to ghastly blue,
That does not spare the most celestial noses;
The very snow, that slips
As kisses on dead lips,
Assumes, with awful and unearthly dowers,
Blue hours.
When one great darkness now all things is over,
And the church clock strikes two,
And like a flying cloud the belfry rover,
Goes, stuttering “Who are you?”
Then does my daring fancy love to revel,
And like a conjuror calls
Wild shadows on the walls,
And skeletons from graves, and plays the devil;
Then blue my candle burns,
And bluer still it turns,
While dimly grimly pass, as from blue bowers,
Blue hours.
And the church clock strikes two,
And like a flying cloud the belfry rover,
Goes, stuttering “Who are you?”
Then does my daring fancy love to revel,
And like a conjuror calls
Wild shadows on the walls,
And skeletons from graves, and plays the devil;
Then blue my candle burns,
And bluer still it turns,
While dimly grimly pass, as from blue bowers,
Blue hours.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |