A FANTASY.
113
And the lips in mild reproving, or in words of love unclose,
Till my spirit shrinks no longer weakly from its light affliction,
But a new-born strength and patience into all my being flows.
Till my spirit shrinks no longer weakly from its light affliction,
But a new-born strength and patience into all my being flows.
And the hours pass by uncounted, while I sit in listening stillness,
Spellbound by the magic power of those mystical dark eyes,
Heeding not the fire-light's fading, or the hushed room's growing chillness,—
Seeing only those sweet features, as the moonlight on them lies.
Spellbound by the magic power of those mystical dark eyes,
Heeding not the fire-light's fading, or the hushed room's growing chillness,—
Seeing only those sweet features, as the moonlight on them lies.
But when day with shining footprints o'er the distant hills advances,
And the sun's unclouded rising sets the glowing east aflame,
Fades the vision of the night-time, with its train of shadowy fancies,
And the picture shrinks in silence to the prison of its frame.
And the sun's unclouded rising sets the glowing east aflame,
Fades the vision of the night-time, with its train of shadowy fancies,
And the picture shrinks in silence to the prison of its frame.
