To a Friend.
OH thou hast called me thy own sister dear,
And my wild heart, o'erfilled with burning love,
Hath sprung, as springs the lark at early morn,
To greet the golden beam of day's proud star;
Or, as the pale and fainting floweret turns
Its wilted leaves to the refreshing dew.
Dost ask to read this wayward heart of mine,
To scan its agonies, its wild, deep griefs?
Would'st thou not turn away from me, when o'er
That volume dark thine eye should roam? Oh, say,
Could'st love me still, friend of my darkened years?
Life's weary sands are failing fast. When thou
Lookest upon this still and haughty face,
Dost thou e'er dream that passion's maddening tide
And my wild heart, o'erfilled with burning love,
Hath sprung, as springs the lark at early morn,
To greet the golden beam of day's proud star;
Or, as the pale and fainting floweret turns
Its wilted leaves to the refreshing dew.
Dost ask to read this wayward heart of mine,
To scan its agonies, its wild, deep griefs?
Would'st thou not turn away from me, when o'er
That volume dark thine eye should roam? Oh, say,
Could'st love me still, friend of my darkened years?
Life's weary sands are failing fast. When thou
Lookest upon this still and haughty face,
Dost thou e'er dream that passion's maddening tide
