Why?
WHY is it that I keep her glove—
Poor little phantom of lost love—
Why was it that I wore her ring,
And love the songs she used to sing,
And treasure under lock and key,
The letters she has written me?
Why?
Why is it that where’er I go,
As footsteps follow in the snow,
As low and light, she seems to glide
Along the highway at my side?
Yet, when my arms seek to embrace
Her form, then vanishes her face.
Why?
Why is it that no other tone
Falls on my ear as did her own?
No other hand so soft and white,
No other eye so warm and bright—
Though other lips I since have pressed,
I something missed—the truth you’ve guessed.
Why?
A Sunset Longing.
TO F. S. H.
WHAT meaneth this unrest within my heart,
And why do I sit here alone and sigh?
The sunset throws its garnished doors apart,
And palace halls are opened in the sky—
I gaze upon the gold strewn in the west,
A miser, of his jewels dispossessed.
I have played in the sunset’s crimson rain,
And felt its saffron torch wave o’er my brow,
That heated to excess my maddened brain,
And threw a halo ’round my heart—but now,
Like some poor bird far from its kindred sky,
I look into the sunset—look and sigh.
I have no friend to lean upon my heart,
Ah! how I miss the pressure of thy hand,
And thy dear voice seems of the past a part;
Thy figure like a shade from shadow-land.
I think I would be happy if you came
And touched my hand, or softly called my name.
If I could look into your face to-night,
And search the deep mines of your pensive eyes,
Sure, I would find there a responsive light,
To dissipate from out my heart the sighs;
And then I know my lips would lose their scorn,
And in my soul a new impulse be born.
If we could wander off far from the crowd
Among the hills—our voices there unheard—
Where once our hearts in unison beat loud,
To the sweet song of some wild mountain bird,
I think the twilight vail would lose its gloom,
That shrouds to-night the windows of my room.
Perhaps ’tis wrong that I should sadden you
With these rain-droppings that my heart-clouds shed;
Gladly would I distill a drop of dew
Down deep into your flower-like heart instead.
Some other night, if separation’s sky
Should clearer grow, dear absent one, I’ll try.
