SONG FROM A DRAMA.
I KNOW not if moonlight or starlight
Be soft on the land or the sea,—
I catch but the near light, the far light,
Of eyes that are burning for me;
The scent of the night, of the roses,
May burden the air for thee, sweet,—
’Tis only the breath of thy sighing
I know, as I lie at thy feet.
The winds may be sobbing or singing,
Their touch may be fervent or cold,
The night-bells may toll or be ringing,—
I care not, while thee I enfold!
The feast may go on, and the music
Be scattered in ecstasy round,—
Thy whisper, “I love thee! I love thee!”
Hath flooded my soul with its sound.
I think not of time that is flying,
How short is the hour I have won,
How near is this living to dying,
How the shadow still follows the sun;
There is naught upon earth, no desire,
Worth a thought, though ’twere had by a sign!
I love thee! I love thee! bring nigher
Thy spirit, thy kisses to mine.
Edmund Clarence Stedman.
THE VIOLET.
OH! faint delicious spring-time violet,
Thine odour, like a key,
Turns noiselessly in memory’s wards to let
A thought of sorrow free.
The breath of distant fields upon my brow
Blows through that open door
The sound of wind-borne bells more sweet and low
And sadder than of yore.
It comes afar from that beloved place,
And that beloved hour,
When Life hung ripening in Love’s golden grace,
Like grapes above a bower.
A spring goes singing through its reedy grass,
The lark sings o’er my head
Drowned in the sky—oh, pass, ye visions, pass!
I would that I were dead.
Why hast thou opened that forbidden door
From which I ever flee?
O vanished Joy! O Love that art no more,
Let my vexed spirit be!