|
She sits beside the low window,
In the pleasant evening-time,
With her face turned to the sunset,
Reading a book of rhyme.
And the wine-light of the sunset,
Stolen into the dainty nook,
Where she sits in her sacred beauty,
Lies crimson on the book.
O beautiful eyes so tender,
Brown eyes so tender and dear,
Did you leave your reading a moment
Just now, as I passed near?
Maybe, ’tis the sunset flushes
Her features, so lily-pale;
Maybe, ’tis the lover’s passion,
She reads of in the tale.
O darling, and darling, and darling,
If I dared to trust my thought;
128
If I dared to believe what I must not,
Believe what no one ought,––
We would read together the poem
Of the Love that never died,
The passionate, world-old story
Come true, and glorified.
|