44
And pale, pale, alas! is thy rosy lip now,
Its melody broken and gone,
And cold is the young heart, whose sweet dreams below
Were of summer, of summer alone.
Its melody broken and gone,
And cold is the young heart, whose sweet dreams below
Were of summer, of summer alone.
Yet the rise and the fall of thine eyelids of snow
O'er their blue orbs so mournfully meek,
And the delicate blush that would vanish and glow
Through the light of thy transparent cheek,
And thy tresses all put from thy forehead away—
These, these on my memory rise,
As I gaze on yon bright orb, whose beautiful ray
Hath so often been blest by thine eyes.
O'er their blue orbs so mournfully meek,
And the delicate blush that would vanish and glow
Through the light of thy transparent cheek,
And thy tresses all put from thy forehead away—
These, these on my memory rise,
As I gaze on yon bright orb, whose beautiful ray
Hath so often been blest by thine eyes.
The blue-girdled stars and the soft dreamy air,
Divide thy fair spirit and mine;
Yet I look in my heart, and a something is there,
That links it in feeling to thine:
The glow of the sunset, the voice of the breeze,
As it cradles itself on the sea,
Are dear to my bosom, for moments like these
Are sacred to memory and thee.
Divide thy fair spirit and mine;
Yet I look in my heart, and a something is there,
That links it in feeling to thine:
The glow of the sunset, the voice of the breeze,
As it cradles itself on the sea,
Are dear to my bosom, for moments like these
Are sacred to memory and thee.
