ELISE.
(By L.E.L.)
O Let me love her! she has past
Into my inmost heart—
A dweller on the hallowed ground
Of its least worldly part;
Where feelings and where memories dwell
Like hidden music in the shell.
She was so like the forms that float
On twilight's hour to me,
Making of cloud-born shapes and thoughts
A dear reality;
As much a thing of light and air
As ever poet's visions were.
I left smoke, vanities, and cares,
Just far enough behind,
To dream of fairies 'neath the moon,
Of voices on the wind,
And every fantasy of mine
Was truth in that sweet face of thine.
Her cheek was very, very pale,
Yet it was still more fair;
Lost were one half its loveliness,
Had the red rose been there:
But now that sad and touching grace
Made her's seem like an angel's face.
The spring, with all its breath and bloom,
Hath not so dear a flower,
As the white lily's languid head
Drooping beneath the shower;
And health hath ever waken'd less
Of deep and anxious tenderness.
And O thy destiny was love,
Written in those soft eyes;
A creature to be met with smiles.
And to be watch'd with sighs;
A sweet and fragile blossom, made
To be within the bosom laid.
And there are some beneath whose touch
The coldest hearts expand,
As erst the rocks gave forth their tears
Beneath the prophet's hand;
And colder than that rock must be
The heart that melted not for thee.
Thy voice—thy poet lover's song
Has not a softer tone;
Thy dark eyes—only stars at night
Such holy light have known;
And thy smile is thy heart's sweet sign,
So gentle and so feminine.
I feel, in gazing on thy face,
As I had known thee long;
Thy looks are like notes that recall
Some old remembered song
By all that touches and endears,
Lady, I must have loved thee years.
Literary Gazette.