 | Poems |  |
O SUMMER, PAINT ME HER SWEET LIPS.
O Summer, paint me her sweet lips upon thy glowing air!
Across thy gloom, O Winter, fling the dark night of her hair!
O Memory, tender Memory, hear my cry!
Give back, give back the loving lips I never more may touch!
Red! the geranium's scarlet show'd but poor and pale by such!
O Memory! bring but these again, and thou wilt give, how much!
O but to see her face again, and die!
Across thy gloom, O Winter, fling the dark night of her hair!
O Memory, tender Memory, hear my cry!
Give back, give back the loving lips I never more may touch!
Red! the geranium's scarlet show'd but poor and pale by such!
O Memory! bring but these again, and thou wilt give, how much!
O but to see her face again, and die!
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Yet more, O more, O bring me more than yearn'd-for face and form—
The dark eye, misty with its love—the blush with passion warm—
All my blood leapt up to answer in the past!
O give me not the coral of her curving lip alone,
But the words in which the quivering heart beat, trembling, through each tone,
And the warm dear silence, more than words, that own'd her all my own,
And the white arms hung around me at the last!
The dark eye, misty with its love—the blush with passion warm—
All my blood leapt up to answer in the past!
O give me not the coral of her curving lip alone,
But the words in which the quivering heart beat, trembling, through each tone,
And the warm dear silence, more than words, that own'd her all my own,
And the white arms hung around me at the last!
O foolish heart, be still, be still! thy cry is ever vain
For the looks, and smiles, and burning tears that shall not come again,
All that never more thy living eyes shall see.
The buried past is far and cold, and silent in its grave;
Its ears are dull and deaf to all thy misery can rave;
How poor is Memory's power one faint, wan, fleeting glimpse to save,
Of all that never—never more may be!
For the looks, and smiles, and burning tears that shall not come again,
All that never more thy living eyes shall see.
The buried past is far and cold, and silent in its grave;
Its ears are dull and deaf to all thy misery can rave;
How poor is Memory's power one faint, wan, fleeting glimpse to save,
Of all that never—never more may be!
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