 | Poems |  |
“SEIZE,” I SAID, “O ART, THY PENCIL.”
“Seize,” I said, “O Art, thy pencil,
“And, in colours, all divine,
“Give her to my love for ever—
“Ever—ever, make her mine!
“Seize her smile ere time hath chill'd it;
“Fix her glance while yet 'tis bright;
“Give that brow unlined by sorrow,
“That deep hair untouch'd with white!”
Vain, all vain Art's efforts were;
O what art could image her!
“And, in colours, all divine,
“Give her to my love for ever—
“Ever—ever, make her mine!
“Seize her smile ere time hath chill'd it;
“Fix her glance while yet 'tis bright;
“Give that brow unlined by sorrow,
“That deep hair untouch'd with white!”
Vain, all vain Art's efforts were;
O what art could image her!
And I cry to Memory ever,
Cry in vain to day—to night,
“Oh, if but for one sweet instant,
“Give her—give her to my sight!”
Weary day unheeding hears me;
Night, thrice weary, heeds me not;
Dim the image Memory brings me,
All its sweetness half forgot;
Eyes how chang'd from what they were!
Memory may not image her!
Cry in vain to day—to night,
“Oh, if but for one sweet instant,
“Give her—give her to my sight!”
Weary day unheeding hears me;
Night, thrice weary, heeds me not;
Dim the image Memory brings me,
All its sweetness half forgot;
Eyes how chang'd from what they were!
Memory may not image her!
| Poems | |