 | Poems |  |
I.
Stilly as sinks on a Flower of June,
The weight of dusk Eve or of sultry Noon—
Mutely and densely as fog-mists enthral
The elegant Fabric on which they fall—
Thus mutely and deeply, with novelty laden
Has the pall of Love mantled the beautiful Maiden!
The weight of dusk Eve or of sultry Noon—
Mutely and densely as fog-mists enthral
The elegant Fabric on which they fall—
Thus mutely and deeply, with novelty laden
Has the pall of Love mantled the beautiful Maiden!
And the downcast light of the eye, half-hid
By the heavily drooping, transparent lid;—
And the long jetty lashes, imbedded that lie
In the liquidly lustrous glow of the eye,
As, when the Sun, with a mournful glare
Is setting behind a wood all bare,
The black naked branches by which he is crost
In the indistinct brightness are almost lost;—
Those glossy dark fringes that seem to seek
To pillow themselves on the damask cheek,
Whose delicate sheen with a warm-blush is burning,
Like the Daisy away from you modestly turning;—
And the rose-lips, down sinking in sweetest of sadness,
Undimpled,—unwreathed by the smilings of gladness;—
By the heavily drooping, transparent lid;—
And the long jetty lashes, imbedded that lie
In the liquidly lustrous glow of the eye,
As, when the Sun, with a mournful glare
Is setting behind a wood all bare,
The black naked branches by which he is crost
In the indistinct brightness are almost lost;—
Those glossy dark fringes that seem to seek
To pillow themselves on the damask cheek,
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Like the Daisy away from you modestly turning;—
And the rose-lips, down sinking in sweetest of sadness,
Undimpled,—unwreathed by the smilings of gladness;—
Nay, the head that is bowed, as the blue-bell may be,
When it folds to its bosom the searching bee,—
And the arm, that can scarcely its own weight sustain,
But unweetingly losing its hold again
Of the curtain it clung to, is ready to glide
Slowly adown to her gentle side—
Sooth to say, her whole graceful but buoyantless frame,
Unupheld and so languid—all tell us the same,
The same soft tale of the o'ermastering weight
Of her spirit's tyrannical tender freight!—
When it folds to its bosom the searching bee,—
And the arm, that can scarcely its own weight sustain,
But unweetingly losing its hold again
Of the curtain it clung to, is ready to glide
Slowly adown to her gentle side—
Sooth to say, her whole graceful but buoyantless frame,
Unupheld and so languid—all tell us the same,
The same soft tale of the o'ermastering weight
Of her spirit's tyrannical tender freight!—
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