THE FLIGHT.
Here in the silent doorway let me linger One moment, for the porch is still and lonely;That shadow's but the rose vine in the moonlight; All are asleep in peace, I waken only,And he I wait, by my own heart's beating I know how slow to him the tide creeps by,Nor life, nor death, could bar our hearts from meeting; Were worlds between, his soul to mine would fly.
Oh, shame! to think a heap of paltry metal Should overbalance manhood's noblest graces;A film of gold had gilt his worth and honor, Warming to smiles the coldness of their faces;Gentle to me, they rise in condemnation, And plead with me than words more powerfully.Oh! well I love them-but they have wealth and station To fill their hearts, and he has only me.
But oh, my roses, how their great pure faces Beseech me as they bend from sculptured column.So with my wet cheek closely pressed against them, I listen to their pleadings sweet and solemn.
