TO ———, DURING HIS ILLNESS.
165
And seen the crimson spot upon thy brow,
The omens of the grave. Thy pallid lip
Trembles as with a keen, unspoken pain,
And there are times when o'er thy sunken face
Deep, mournful shadows, and bright spirit-gleams,
Follow each other, telling that thy thoughts
Are of the tomb and heaven.
The omens of the grave. Thy pallid lip
Trembles as with a keen, unspoken pain,
And there are times when o'er thy sunken face
Deep, mournful shadows, and bright spirit-gleams,
Follow each other, telling that thy thoughts
Are of the tomb and heaven.
Thy hand is cold,
And damp and deathlike when 'tis pressed in mine,
And though few years have yet been thine on earth,
Bright silver threads, like waning spectres, gleam
Amid the raven curls that float around
Thy temples pale. Thy voice hath fainter grown,
And though its melody is sweeter now
Than even when, in thy young years of health
And manly strength, thy first dear words of love
Were breathed into my ear, its sweetness seems
Caught from the spirit-world. Ay, its low tones
Soften and melt, each day, as if they were
Attuning, even now, their cadences
And damp and deathlike when 'tis pressed in mine,
And though few years have yet been thine on earth,
Bright silver threads, like waning spectres, gleam
Amid the raven curls that float around
Thy temples pale. Thy voice hath fainter grown,
And though its melody is sweeter now
Than even when, in thy young years of health
And manly strength, thy first dear words of love
Were breathed into my ear, its sweetness seems
Caught from the spirit-world. Ay, its low tones
Soften and melt, each day, as if they were
Attuning, even now, their cadences
