 | The poems of Celia Thaxter |  |
BETROTHED
Softly the flickering firelight comes and goes;
The warm glow flashes, sinks, departs, returns,
And shows me where the delicate red rose
In the tall, slender vase of crystal burns.
The warm glow flashes, sinks, departs, returns,
And shows me where the delicate red rose
In the tall, slender vase of crystal burns.
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The tempest beats without. The hush within
Is sweeter for the turmoil of the night;
Ice clatters at the pane and snowflakes spin
A web of woven storm, a shroud of white.
Is sweeter for the turmoil of the night;
Ice clatters at the pane and snowflakes spin
A web of woven storm, a shroud of white.
Its secret the wild winter weather keeps,
No sound transpires except the tempest's breath;
Locked in the frost the muffled pathway sleeps,
For any human token still as death.
No sound transpires except the tempest's breath;
Locked in the frost the muffled pathway sleeps,
For any human token still as death.
My eyes the room's familiar aspect hold,
Its quiet beauty and its sumptuous gloom,
Its glimmering draperies of dull rich gold,
The gleam upon the burnished peacock's plume.
Its quiet beauty and its sumptuous gloom,
Its glimmering draperies of dull rich gold,
The gleam upon the burnished peacock's plume.
My rose, my book, my work, I see them all,
With my whole soul surrendered to one sense,
My life within my ears, for one footfall
Listening with patience breathless and intense.
With my whole soul surrendered to one sense,
My life within my ears, for one footfall
Listening with patience breathless and intense.
'T is my heart hears, at last, the silent door
Swing on its hinges, there 's no need the fire
Should show me whose step thrills the conscious floor,
As suddenly the wayward flame leaps higher.
Swing on its hinges, there 's no need the fire
Should show me whose step thrills the conscious floor,
As suddenly the wayward flame leaps higher.
Thou comest, bringing all good things that are!
Infinite joy, and peace with white wings furled,
All heaven is here and thou the morning-star,
Thou splendor of my life! “Thou Day o' the world!”
Infinite joy, and peace with white wings furled,
All heaven is here and thou the morning-star,
Thou splendor of my life! “Thou Day o' the world!”
| The poems of Celia Thaxter | |