 | Brother Fabian's Manuscript |  |
O Friend!—I dare not see thee as thou art!—
These idle fancies are but as the flow
Of bubbling organ-trebles, clear but low,
At dawn in sleeping nunneries, that grow
Louder and ever louder, till the white
Sisters awake to their old undelight!—
Ay, me!—And I awaken with a start,
To feel thy cold hand pressed against my heart!
These idle fancies are but as the flow
Of bubbling organ-trebles, clear but low,
At dawn in sleeping nunneries, that grow
Louder and ever louder, till the white
Sisters awake to their old undelight!—
Ay, me!—And I awaken with a start,
To feel thy cold hand pressed against my heart!
| Brother Fabian's Manuscript | |