 | Poems |  |
97
UNREST.
O! vestal lilies, white and still,
Thy golden cressets newly trim;
O! wine-tipt tulip globes now spill
Thy orient oils upon the flame;
My heavy woe I may not name,
But woe were less if thou wouldst fill
Each golden cresset's rim—
For I may burn within the fire
All bitterness, but what is true
Endures the ordeal of the pyre,
And swathes itself in gossamer dew.
Thy golden cressets newly trim;
O! wine-tipt tulip globes now spill
Thy orient oils upon the flame;
My heavy woe I may not name,
But woe were less if thou wouldst fill
Each golden cresset's rim—
For I may burn within the fire
All bitterness, but what is true
Endures the ordeal of the pyre,
And swathes itself in gossamer dew.
O! summer wind return again
And sing my little ills to rest;
Distill thy balm, delightful rain,
Through various currents of the air;
The cross is heavy that I bear;
But thou mayest lull the vexing pain
And breathe a quiet in my breast.
Peace, weary heart! O! tongue be mute!
Voluptuous goddess, prithee, weep
Thy golden tears, and soft salute
Yon star, my soul desireth sleep.
And sing my little ills to rest;
Distill thy balm, delightful rain,
Through various currents of the air;
The cross is heavy that I bear;
But thou mayest lull the vexing pain
And breathe a quiet in my breast.
98
Voluptuous goddess, prithee, weep
Thy golden tears, and soft salute
Yon star, my soul desireth sleep.
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