Not the palace lights of Hesper
In the Queendom of the Moon,
Win me from that lovely vesper—
The last one of our last June.
Oh the golden-tressed minutes!
Oh the silver-footed hours!
Oh the thoughts that sang like linnets,
In a woodland full of flowers!
When my wild heart beat so lightly
It forgot its mortal shroud;
And an Angel trembled brightly
In the fold of every cloud.
Wo! That storms of sorrow-strife
Hold the pitying light apart,
And the golden waves of life
Beat against a breaking heart.
Saddest fate that e’er has been
Woven in the loom of years,
Our sworn faith has come between,
Heavy with the wine of tears.
Broken vow and slighted trust—
Hope’s white garments soiled and torn—
Passion trampled in the dust
By the iron heel of scorn.
Thou art dead, to me, as those
Folded safe from mortal strife;
Dead! as tho’ the grave-mould froze
The red rivers of thy life!
Oh! My Sweet! My Light! My Love!
With my grief co-heir sublime!
Storms and sorrows ever prove
True inheritors of Time.
Hush! An Angel holds my heart
From its breaking—tho’ I stand,
From the happy world apart,
On a broad and barren sand.
I will love thee tho’ I die!
Love thee, with my ancient faith!
For immortal voices cry:
Love is mightier than Death!