 | The Uncollected Poems of Henry Timrod |  |
61
[LINES]
OH! MARIE THINK, SO MANY YEARS
Oh! Marie think, so many years
As I have numbered more than thou,
So many years as past ere I
Loved as I love thee now,
As I have numbered more than thou,
So many years as past ere I
Loved as I love thee now,
So many weary years I lived
I[n] utter thoughtlessness of thee,
So many weary years thou wert
An unknown star to me.
I[n] utter thoughtlessness of thee,
So many weary years thou wert
An unknown star to me.
And yet how lightly beat my heart,
At least I know 'twas seldom sad,
And when we are not wholly blest,
'Tis something to be glad.
At least I know 'twas seldom sad,
And when we are not wholly blest,
'Tis something to be glad.
How Marie this could ever be
I really cannot understand,
No more than how a flower should bloom
In some dry desert land.
I really cannot understand,
No more than how a flower should bloom
In some dry desert land.
Unless indeed the joys I felt
Were mystic glimpses from above,
Dimly prophetical of thee
And promising thy love
Were mystic glimpses from above,
Dimly prophetical of thee
And promising thy love
Dear heart! I now remember well
How oft I seemed to breathe an air,
A more etherial medium than
The common atmosphere.
How oft I seemed to breathe an air,
62
The common atmosphere.
And dreams would come—I dream'd not whence—
My heart would throb—I guessed not why,
And sometimes when I felt no pain
A tear bedim my eye.
My heart would throb—I guessed not why,
And sometimes when I felt no pain
A tear bedim my eye.
Philosophers explain these signs
By some cold metaphysic reason—
They do not know the tokens which
Precede a pleasant season.
By some cold metaphysic reason—
They do not know the tokens which
Precede a pleasant season.
Marie! it is my calm belief
And so must thou opine with with [sic] me,
That never joy sustained my soul
But took its power from thee.
And so must thou opine with with [sic] me,
That never joy sustained my soul
But took its power from thee.
And all my pleasures in the past
Still pointed to my present bliss
And pleasure never had been mine
Had fate denied me this.
Still pointed to my present bliss
And pleasure never had been mine
Had fate denied me this.
| The Uncollected Poems of Henry Timrod | |