 | Impressions of Italy and Other Poems |  |
109
DEPARTURE.
Oh! what a change one little hour
Hath wrought for me—nought seems the same;
The Air choaks my breath—the Sunbeams lower,
And all is dull, and drear, and tame.
Hath wrought for me—nought seems the same;
The Air choaks my breath—the Sunbeams lower,
And all is dull, and drear, and tame.
Thou'rt gone!—and with thee doth depart
Hope—Inspiration—Love—and Life;
That torrid whirlwind, my wild heart,
Sinks, sickening, from its glowing strife!
Hope—Inspiration—Love—and Life;
That torrid whirlwind, my wild heart,
Sinks, sickening, from its glowing strife!
Life's but a strange sensation now—
Impatient of myself I'm grown;
I feel my soul within me bow,
I feel crushed, changed, and lost, and lone.
Impatient of myself I'm grown;
I feel my soul within me bow,
I feel crushed, changed, and lost, and lone.
110
What is this self that is not thee?
'Tis a dull burden—a vile tie—
Oh! could I but the echo be,
Beloved one! of thy faintest sigh!
'Tis a dull burden—a vile tie—
Oh! could I but the echo be,
Beloved one! of thy faintest sigh!
The dream that flits across thy brain,
The image of thine all-perfect frame;
The glass that bears thy breath's light stain,
The very scroll that keeps thy name!
The image of thine all-perfect frame;
The glass that bears thy breath's light stain,
The very scroll that keeps thy name!
The shadow of thy glorious form—
The breeze that fans thy brow by chance—
The pulse that in thy heart beats warm—
The light of thine all-dazzling glance!
The breeze that fans thy brow by chance—
The pulse that in thy heart beats warm—
The light of thine all-dazzling glance!
Thy very foot-print on the sand—
The chord that thrills to touch of thine—
The word traced lightly by thy hand—
All—aught—that is more thine than mine!
The chord that thrills to touch of thine—
The word traced lightly by thy hand—
All—aught—that is more thine than mine!
| Impressions of Italy and Other Poems | |