 | The poems of Trumbull Stickney |  |
178
XII
A STONE
With burning hands and eyes all dull
I bring to you this drop of fire,
This topaz where the summerful
Of August afternoons expire.
I bring to you this drop of fire,
This topaz where the summerful
Of August afternoons expire.
The stone you gave me long ago:
A meteor from your life, it sought
My lonely bosom and below
Lay glowing in the gloom of thought.
A meteor from your life, it sought
My lonely bosom and below
Lay glowing in the gloom of thought.
From thence I took it pure and whole
To comfort me to-day, and found
That from the waters of my soul
These bands of gold have drawn around,
To comfort me to-day, and found
That from the waters of my soul
These bands of gold have drawn around,
This little setting's nervous art,
Slow-formed but mighty, made to hold
The sunshine visiting the dark—
You, darling, that my arms enfold.
Slow-formed but mighty, made to hold
The sunshine visiting the dark—
You, darling, that my arms enfold.
| The poems of Trumbull Stickney | |