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THE TRYST OF SOULS.
And I, alone, a pilgrim still,
Was left to climb the midnight hill.
Was left to climb the midnight hill.
My hand was on the latch, when lo!
'T was lifted from within! and slow,
Dawned on my heart its dearest dream;—
Within I saw the wood-fire gleam,
And smiling, waiting, beckoning there,
My father, in his ancient chair!
'T was lifted from within! and slow,
Dawned on my heart its dearest dream;—
Within I saw the wood-fire gleam,
And smiling, waiting, beckoning there,
My father, in his ancient chair!
O the long rapture, perfect rest,
As close he clasped me to his breast!
Put back the braids the wind had blown;
Said I had like my mother grown;
And bade me tell him, frank as she,
All the lone years had brought to me.
As close he clasped me to his breast!
Put back the braids the wind had blown;
Said I had like my mother grown;
And bade me tell him, frank as she,
All the lone years had brought to me.
What cared I then?—his hand in mine,
I tasted joy serene, divine,
And saw my griefs unfolding fair
As flowers in June's enchanted air.
So warm his words, so soft his sighs,
Such tender lovelight in his eyes,
I tasted joy serene, divine,
And saw my griefs unfolding fair
As flowers in June's enchanted air.
So warm his words, so soft his sighs,
Such tender lovelight in his eyes,
"O Death!" I cried, "if these be thine,
For me the asphodels entwine!
Fold me within thy blessed calm;
Leave on my lips thy kiss of balm;
And let me slumber, pillowed low,
With Margaret where the violets blow!"
For me the asphodels entwine!
Fold me within thy blessed calm;
Leave on my lips thy kiss of balm;
And let me slumber, pillowed low,
With Margaret where the violets blow!"
