 | Orval, or The Fool of Time |  |
THE BIRTH OF LOVE.
I know not if, in waking dream, or sleep,
His light, that made her, on my soul hath shined;
Or if from out the memory or the mind
Aught else of brightness, pour'd, my spirit doth steep.
His light, that made her, on my soul hath shined;
Or if from out the memory or the mind
Aught else of brightness, pour'd, my spirit doth steep.
Perchance within me some late beam I keep
Of Heaven's original glory left behind;
Some smouldering sense of scarce I know what kind
Of sweetest pain; whence I perforce must weep.
Of Heaven's original glory left behind;
Some smouldering sense of scarce I know what kind
Of sweetest pain; whence I perforce must weep.
Not of myself, nor can I well declare
Whence, is the power that in me moves, and guides
My dazzled heart through every new surprise.
Whence, is the power that in me moves, and guides
My dazzled heart through every new surprise.
But, since I saw you, lady, thus I fare,
Whom bitter sweet with yes and no divides.
Doubtless 'tis all the doing of your eyes.
Whom bitter sweet with yes and no divides.
Doubtless 'tis all the doing of your eyes.
| Orval, or The Fool of Time | |