 | The Uncollected Poems of Henry Timrod |  |
96
STANZAS
IT WAS MY HEART, DEAR FRIEND
It was my heart, dear friend, that sung
And that imperfect strain
Revealed the gloom, but not the grief,
The darkness, not the pain—
If Heaven depended on my song,
I could not sing again.
And that imperfect strain
Revealed the gloom, but not the grief,
The darkness, not the pain—
If Heaven depended on my song,
I could not sing again.
I have nor will nor skill to woo
The Poet's golden dower,
The breath that swept my spirit was
A feeling, not a power.
And the breeze that bore its fragrance off
Hath withered up the flower.
The Poet's golden dower,
The breath that swept my spirit was
A feeling, not a power.
And the breeze that bore its fragrance off
Hath withered up the flower.
Then ask me not for verse again,
Or seek some other token—
I sung my last and only song
When my one grief was spoken.
The heart is aye the Poet's lyre,
And mine is almost broken.
Or seek some other token—
I sung my last and only song
When my one grief was spoken.
The heart is aye the Poet's lyre,
And mine is almost broken.
97
Once, lady, in my life
I stood upon the brink
Of the river we call Love,
And I bent me down to drink;
But the stream ran lightly by,
While I scarcely breathed a sigh.
I stood upon the brink
Of the river we call Love,
And I bent me down to drink;
But the stream ran lightly by,
While I scarcely breathed a sigh.
Since then I only watched
The waters as they run
Through the bad and busy world,
In the shadow and the sun;
And I swore I would not taste,
Though my heart should flow to waste.
The waters as they run
Through the bad and busy world,
In the shadow and the sun;
And I swore I would not taste,
Though my heart should flow to waste.
Yet the waves are very fair,
And I could not help at times
From committing to their sport
A few hopes and many rhymes;
But they had no certain aim,
And brought me only—fame.
And I could not help at times
From committing to their sport
A few hopes and many rhymes;
But they had no certain aim,
And brought me only—fame.
So I strolled along the bank
In a sort of vagrant way;
And I laughed to view the spot
Where the latest victims lay,
When, behold! I saw a face
In an unexpected place!
In a sort of vagrant way;
And I laughed to view the spot
Where the latest victims lay,
When, behold! I saw a face
In an unexpected place!
It looked so bright and frank
From its darling little nook,
As I paused to gaze awhile,
That I flung aside my book,
And before the face grew dim
My lips were at the brim.
From its darling little nook,
98
That I flung aside my book,
And before the face grew dim
My lips were at the brim.
And I drank and drank, and drank,
And when I looked above
The sky seemed full of bliss,
And the air seemed full of love,
And turn where'er I might
I saw that face so bright.
And when I looked above
The sky seemed full of bliss,
And the air seemed full of love,
And turn where'er I might
I saw that face so bright.
Need I say the face was thine?
Oh, Lady, could'st thou guess
What I cannot all conceal,
Yet dare not all confess,
Thou woulds't flutter like a bird
To my breast without a word.
Oh, Lady, could'st thou guess
What I cannot all conceal,
Yet dare not all confess,
Thou woulds't flutter like a bird
To my breast without a word.
| The Uncollected Poems of Henry Timrod | |