A voice on the winds,
A voice on the waters,
Wanders and cries:
O what are the winds?
And what are the waters?
Mine are your eyes.
Western the winds are,
And western the waters,
Where the light lies:
O what are the winds?
And what are the waters?
Mine are your eyes.
Cold, cold grow the winds,
And dark grow the waters,
Where the sun dies:
O what are the winds?
And what are the waters?
Mine are your eyes.
And down the night winds,
And down the night waters
The music flies:
O what are the winds?
And what are the waters?
Cold be the winds,
And wild be the waters,
So mine be your eyes.
A Lament.
DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY
Youth’s bright palace
Is overthrown,
With its diamond sceptre
And golden throne;
As a time-worn stone
Its turrets are humbled,—
All hath crumbled
But grief alone!
Whither, oh! whither
Have fled away
The dreams and hopes
Of my early day?
Ruined and grey
Are the towers I builded;
And the beams that gilded—
Ah! where are they?
Once this world
Was fresh and bright,
With its golden noon
And its starry night;
Glad and light,
By mountain and river,
Have I blessed the Giver
With hushed delight.
Youth’s illusions,
One by one,
Have passed like clouds
That the sun looked on.
While morning shone,
How purple their fringes!
How ashy their tinges
When that was gone!