THE SPIRIT OF MY SONG.
Tell me—have you ever met her—
Met the spirit of my song—
Have her wave-like footsteps glided
Through the city's worldly throng?
You will know her by a wreath,
Woven all of starry light,
That is lying 'mid her hair—
Braided hair as dark as night.
A short band of radiant summers
Is upon her forehead laid,
Twining half in golden sunlight,
Keeping half in dreamy shade;
Five white fingers clasp a lyre,
Five its silvery strings awake,
And bewildering to the soul
Is the music that they make.
Though her glances sleep like shadows
'Neath each falling, silken lash,
Yet at aught that wakes resentment,
They magnificently flash.
Though you loved such dewy dream-light,
And such glances of sweet surprise,
You could never bear the scorn
Of these proud and brilliant eyes.
There's a sweet and winning curving
In her bright lip's crimson hue,
And a glittering tint of roses
From her soft cheek gleaming through;
Do you think that you have met her?
She is young and pure and fair,
And she wears a wreath of starlight
In her braided ebon hair.
