 | Prose sketches and poems |  |
SIMILES, IN TWO SONNETS.
Above me are the dazzling snows; around
The mountains bend, high, rocky and eterne;
Anear the rattling rivulet doth sound,
And far below, it hath the bosom found
Of a bright lake, that seemeth not to spurn
One ray of sunlight from its gentle presence,
But doth embody all, and seemeth changed
To sheeted light by Sol's etherial essence.
O silver star! for whom doth ever burn
The altar of my soul's idolatry!
Let thy bright arrows sink into the sea
Of my sad soul, until it gently calm;
And though thou canst but people a lone dream,
Oh soothe me like an angel's silver palm.
And close beyond, the mountains gray upstream,
Like cloudy shades, into the upper air.
Perpetual watchers do the giants seem
Of the lake's quiet. Lo! their heads are bare
Beneath God's presence, which is mighty there,
In the etherial, keen, thin element.
A floating cloud hath down from heaven bent,
And on the hill-side feeds the springing leaves,
And into water-drops its soul doth weave,
Feeding the streams. O lady of my love!
Be thou, though absent, like the silver cloud,
Over my soul. Oh may thy spirit move,
Feeding its dark and parched wilderness!
And once, or ere I die, touch, transport, bless!
The mountains bend, high, rocky and eterne;
Anear the rattling rivulet doth sound,
And far below, it hath the bosom found
Of a bright lake, that seemeth not to spurn
One ray of sunlight from its gentle presence,
But doth embody all, and seemeth changed
To sheeted light by Sol's etherial essence.
O silver star! for whom doth ever burn
The altar of my soul's idolatry!
Let thy bright arrows sink into the sea
Of my sad soul, until it gently calm;
And though thou canst but people a lone dream,
Oh soothe me like an angel's silver palm.
And close beyond, the mountains gray upstream,
Like cloudy shades, into the upper air.
Perpetual watchers do the giants seem
Of the lake's quiet. Lo! their heads are bare
Beneath God's presence, which is mighty there,
In the etherial, keen, thin element.
A floating cloud hath down from heaven bent,
And on the hill-side feeds the springing leaves,
And into water-drops its soul doth weave,
Feeding the streams. O lady of my love!
Be thou, though absent, like the silver cloud,
Over my soul. Oh may thy spirit move,
Feeding its dark and parched wilderness!
And once, or ere I die, touch, transport, bless!
Mountains of Xemes, April 15, 1832.
| Prose sketches and poems | |