To-morrow hurry through the fields
Of Flanders to the storied Rhine!
To-night those soft-fringed eyes shall close
Beneath one roof, my queen! with mine.
FADED LEAVES.
[I. THE RIVER.]
Still glides the stream, slow drops the boat
Under the rustling poplars’ shade;
Silent the swans beside us float:
None speaks, none heeds; ah, turn thy head!
Let those arch eyes now softly shine,
That mocking mouth grow sweetly bland;
Ah! let them rest, those eyes, on mine!
On mine let rest that lovely hand!
My pent-up tears oppress my brain,
My heart is swoln with love unsaid.
Ah! let me weep, and tell my pain,
And on thy shoulder rest my head!
Before I die,—before the soul,
Which now is mine, must re-attain
Immunity from my control,
And wander round the world again;
Before this teased, o’er-labored heart
Forever leaves its vain employ,
Dead to its deep habitual smart,
And dead to hopes of future joy.
[II. TOO LATE]
Each on his own strict line we move,
And some find death ere they find love;
So far apart their lives are thrown
From the twin soul that halves their own.