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|
 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
V
Shelays down the book, and sits musing:
How true! how true!—but words are weak,
In sympathy they give the soul,
To music—music, that can speak
All the heart's pain and dole;
All that the sad heart treasures most
Of love that 's lost, of love that 's lost.—
I would not hear sweet music now.
My heart would break to hear it now.
In sympathy they give the soul,
To music—music, that can speak
All the heart's pain and dole;
All that the sad heart treasures most
Of love that 's lost, of love that 's lost.—
I would not hear sweet music now.
My heart would break to hear it now.
87
So weary am I, and so fain
To see his face, to feel his kiss
Thrill rapture through my soul again!—
There is no hell like this!—
Ah, God! my God, were it not best
To give me rest, to give me rest!—
Come, death, and breathe upon my brow.
Sweet death, come kiss my mouth and brow.
To see his face, to feel his kiss
Thrill rapture through my soul again!—
There is no hell like this!—
Ah, God! my God, were it not best
To give me rest, to give me rest!—
Come, death, and breathe upon my brow.
Sweet death, come kiss my mouth and brow.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |