 | Hours at Naples, and Other Poems |  |
298
STANZAS.
[I listen for thy steps alone]
I listen for thy steps alone,
I listen for thee, dearest one!
With throbbing heart and straining ear,
Lo! I await that step so dear.
I listen for thee, dearest one!
With throbbing heart and straining ear,
Lo! I await that step so dear.
I listen for thee tremblingly,
I start, I shrink, I shrink and sigh,
Yet hope lives fluttering in my heart,
Through every pulse, through every part.
I start, I shrink, I shrink and sigh,
Yet hope lives fluttering in my heart,
Through every pulse, through every part.
Yes, hope's delicious rapturous thrill,
Wakes in mine anxious bosom still,
But when that step indeed draws near,
My hope is changed into a fear!
Wakes in mine anxious bosom still,
But when that step indeed draws near,
My hope is changed into a fear!
299
Even so it is with fervent Love,
Such strife the impassioned heart must prove;
It longs, it hopes, it doubts, it dreads,
And fast each fresh emotion spreads.
Such strife the impassioned heart must prove;
It longs, it hopes, it doubts, it dreads,
And fast each fresh emotion spreads.
Each fresh Emotion in the heart,
Through every pulse, through every part,
Full qùickly wins its certain way,
And makes that trembling heart its prey.
Through every pulse, through every part,
Full qùickly wins its certain way,
And makes that trembling heart its prey.
Those we most Love, we most must dread
Those o'er whom each fond thought is shed,
For well their fearful power we know,
To steep our souls in Joy or Woe.
Those o'er whom each fond thought is shed,
For well their fearful power we know,
To steep our souls in Joy or Woe.
I weep, I watch—I start and shrink,
And soon my throbbing pulses sink;
To meet thee, Love, I may not dare,
Yet how thine absence can I bear?
And soon my throbbing pulses sink;
To meet thee, Love, I may not dare,
Yet how thine absence can I bear?
300
It is a wild and wayward war,
I pine for thee still when afar,
And yet when thou indeed art near,
My hope is changed into a fear!
I pine for thee still when afar,
And yet when thou indeed art near,
My hope is changed into a fear!
| Hours at Naples, and Other Poems | |