THE CLOUDS ARE BLUSHING.
The clouds are blushing, the sun is gone,
He has been kissing them, every one,
Except the shy ones, that kept away,
And tearfully watched his parting ray;
But they love him no less
For their bashfulness;
The truest of lovers are not the most gay.
The sun is gone, and the blushing clouds
Are growing dimmer, as Night enshrouds
Sky, sea and land in her sombre pall—
The sexton at old Earth’s funeral,
When her race is run,
And her work is done,
And her children are weaned from her, one and all.
The Man of the Moon has lit his lamp,
And is now commencing his airy tramp,
To see how the stars, those merry elves
That wink as he passes, behave themselves.
With steady pace
He is running his race,
Holding his lamp with a dignified grace.
The sun is rising behind the hill,
And I am waiting and watching still—
Waiting and watching, as night goes by,
What queer little scenes take place in the sky,
When the silence is deep
And men are asleep,
And none are awake but the stars and I!
May, 1859.
UNSPOKEN.
.... Quis prodere tanta relatu
.... possit?