Ah, lonely life! it is the wind’s sad cry;
Ah, only life! calls Echo, floating by;
Ah, love is life! it is my heart’s reply.
My heart’s reply.
Burn low, ye fires that on the hearthstone play!
Beat out your life, O waves in dashing spray!
My heart chants not your monotone to-day.
Oh, not to-day!
I hear no dirge, I see no ashes gray—
Love! love! love! love! its rapture fills the day!
The winter brings to me the bloom of May.
The bloom of May.
Lydia Avery Coonley.
LAST NIGHT MY LADY TALKED WITH ME.
LAST night my lady talked with me,
As on a green hill I and she
Sat close, where erst alone I stood
Beneath the dusk-leaved ilex-wood.
The earth was gathered to her rest,
Sweet silence lay upon her breast,
Well-nigh asleep, save that she heard
The wandering waters’ silver word.
The sun had kissed the earth’s dark lips
That grow so ruddy ere he dips,
Wine-coloured to his golden rim,
As purple evening pours for him.
Low stooped his head, as he would drink,
Till out of sight we saw him sink,
And with his splendour in our eyes,
Full-orbed we watched the great moon rise.
Rose-tinged in the dim sky shone she
Like Venus from the opal sea,
So grew her glory in our sight,
Till in her face we saw love’s light,
Love’s light in hers, like flame on flame,—
Yea, very Love in presence came,
Between the fires of moon and sun,
He stood, like dawn ere night begun.