 | The Uncollected Poems of Henry Timrod |  |
I THOUGHT THY NAME
I thought thy name had lost its power
Thy charms forgotten too,
Our love what yon bright cloud will be
Ere falls the evening dew;
Thy charms forgotten too,
Our love what yon bright cloud will be
Ere falls the evening dew;
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That eve'n the memory of that love
With all its happy hours—
Its smiles and tears its doubts and hopes
Had wither'd with these flowers—
With all its happy hours—
Its smiles and tears its doubts and hopes
Had wither'd with these flowers—
The flowers thy fingers twin'd for me
The last last night we met,
Alone, beneath the watching stars
To vow and then—forget.
The last last night we met,
Alone, beneath the watching stars
To vow and then—forget.
Alas! a favourite song has brought,
By some mysterious art,
The red blood to my changing cheek,
The passion to my heart.
By some mysterious art,
The red blood to my changing cheek,
The passion to my heart.
The passion to my worn, worn heart,
The red blood to my cheek,
Regrets my pride is sham'd to own,
Sad thoughts I may not speak.
The red blood to my cheek,
Regrets my pride is sham'd to own,
Sad thoughts I may not speak.
She look'd and sang so much like thee
I fancied every tone
Of that impassion'd melody
But echoes of thine own.
I fancied every tone
Of that impassion'd melody
But echoes of thine own.
Thy own rich voice so often heard,
In the low tones of love,
When morning blush'd upon the sky
Or Evening gloom'd above.
In the low tones of love,
When morning blush'd upon the sky
Or Evening gloom'd above.
Upon her cheek and brow I saw
A nameless feeling play,
As voice and glance grew softer with
The meaning of the lay.
A nameless feeling play,
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The meaning of the lay.
And thus when words had failed to tell
The love within thy heart,
In music and in song wouldst thou
That love's deep truth impart.
The love within thy heart,
In music and in song wouldst thou
That love's deep truth impart.
Oh love forsworn and broken troth!
Which made that cherish' [sic] vow
A present grief—a pleasure past—
A theme for memory now.
Which made that cherish' [sic] vow
A present grief—a pleasure past—
A theme for memory now.
| The Uncollected Poems of Henry Timrod | |