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| 96. | XCVI. DOUBTFUL VOWS. |
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 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
XCVI. DOUBTFUL VOWS.
“By the starlight of thine eye,
By thy soft cheek's changing dye,
By the dimple dancing out,
Peeping, playing round about,
Mid the roses—like a sprite
In a garden of delight—”
By thy soft cheek's changing dye,
By the dimple dancing out,
Peeping, playing round about,
Mid the roses—like a sprite
In a garden of delight—”
“Vow not thou by radiant eyes,
Lo! in tears their glory dies;
Nor by youth's enchanting flower,
Roses die when summer's o'er;
Nor by dimples that must hide
Soon as Sorrow comes to chide.”
Lo! in tears their glory dies;
Nor by youth's enchanting flower,
Roses die when summer's o'er;
Nor by dimples that must hide
Soon as Sorrow comes to chide.”
“By the graceful waving braid,
Half in light and half in shade,
Glittering gold or glossy brown,
From thy forehead floating down;
By the neck it makes more white
With its kisses soft and light—”
Half in light and half in shade,
445
From thy forehead floating down;
By the neck it makes more white
With its kisses soft and light—”
“Vow not thou by gleams of gold
Braided in a tress's fold;
Time will chase the light away,
Time will change the gold to gray;
Vow not thou by tints of snow,
Age will dim their virgin glow.
Braided in a tress's fold;
Time will chase the light away,
Time will change the gold to gray;
Vow not thou by tints of snow,
Age will dim their virgin glow.
“Vow by something holier far
Than the charms of girlhood are;
Else, when rose and ray are fled,
And the ringlet's gloss is dead,—
Lost the dimple—dim the hue
Thy light vows will alter too.”
Than the charms of girlhood are;
Else, when rose and ray are fled,
And the ringlet's gloss is dead,—
Lost the dimple—dim the hue
Thy light vows will alter too.”
“By the soul that fills thy face
With its own immortal grace,
Tuning glance, and step, and tone
Into music all its own,
Hallowing all thy grief and glee—
By thy soul, I love but thee!”
With its own immortal grace,
Tuning glance, and step, and tone
Into music all its own,
Hallowing all thy grief and glee—
By thy soul, I love but thee!”
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |