 | The poems, sacred, passionate, and humorous, of Nathaniel Parker Willis |  |
293
THE BROKEN BRACELET.
'Twas broken in the gliding dance,
When thou wert in thy dream of power,
When lip and motion, smile and glance
Were lovely all—the belle's bright hour.
The light lay soft upon thy brow,
The music melted in thine ear,
And one, perchance forgotten now,
With 'wilder'd thoughts, stood musing near,
Marvelling not that links of gold
A pulse like thine had not controll'd.
When thou wert in thy dream of power,
When lip and motion, smile and glance
Were lovely all—the belle's bright hour.
294
The music melted in thine ear,
And one, perchance forgotten now,
With 'wilder'd thoughts, stood musing near,
Marvelling not that links of gold
A pulse like thine had not controll'd.
'Tis midnight now—the dancers gone—
And thou in thy rich dreams asleep;
And I, awake, am gazing on
The fragments given me to keep.
I think of every glowing vein
That ran beneath these links of gold,
And wonder if a thrill of pain
Made those bright channels ever cold!
With gifts like thine, I cannot think
Grief ever chill'd this broken link.
And thou in thy rich dreams asleep;
And I, awake, am gazing on
The fragments given me to keep.
I think of every glowing vein
That ran beneath these links of gold,
And wonder if a thrill of pain
Made those bright channels ever cold!
With gifts like thine, I cannot think
Grief ever chill'd this broken link.
Good night! 'tis little now to thee
That in my ear thy words were spoken,
And thou will think of them, and me,
As long as of the bracelet broken.
And thus is riven many a chain
That thou hast fasten'd but to break,
And thus thou'lt sink to sleep again,
As careless if another wake;
The only thought thy heart can rend
Is—what the fellow'll charge to mend.
That in my ear thy words were spoken,
And thou will think of them, and me,
As long as of the bracelet broken.
And thus is riven many a chain
That thou hast fasten'd but to break,
And thus thou'lt sink to sleep again,
As careless if another wake;
The only thought thy heart can rend
Is—what the fellow'll charge to mend.
| The poems, sacred, passionate, and humorous, of Nathaniel Parker Willis | |