The long, low isle of marsh-land
Stretches in weary waste,
By sloping sand-banks guarded,
By winding weeds embraced.
Comes clearly from the open
The plash of distant oars,—
Over the rocky headland
The snow-white sea-gull soars.
I see as if through dream-clouds,
I hear from far away.
The scorched air breathes its opiate,
The drowsy fancies stay;
I have no hopes or longings,
I scarce can feel your kiss,—
For thought, and joy and worship,
Another hour than this!
PICTURES.
THE full-orbed Paschal moon; dark shadows flung
On the brown Lenten earth; tall spectral trees
Stand in their huge and naked strength erect,
And stretch wild arms towards the gleaming sky.
A motionless girl-figure, face upraised
In the strong moonlight, cold and passionless.
A proud spring sunset; opal-tinted sky,
Save where the western purple, pale and faint
With longing for her fickle Love,—content
Had merged herself into his burning red.
A fair young maiden, clad in velvet robe
Of sombre green, stands in the golden glow,
One hand held up to shade her dazzled eyes,
A bunch of white Narcissus at her throat.