THOUGHTS OF THEE.
As the wild-bird, when the spring-flower
Cometh back once more,
Seeketh the same greenwood bower
It had loved before;
So my memory never loseth
Its sad dream of thee;
But my heart around it closeth,
Fondly, mournfully.
It doth bide with me forever,
Waking or asleep—
Murmuring like some mournful river,
Low, and wild, and deep.
Every thing that's good and lovely,
All fair things I see,
Do like hidden music move me,
With sad dreams of thee.
Summer clouds are beautiful,
And sunny spots in groves;
And the gushing of a waterfall
Hath a melting voice like love's;
And the young moon hath a witchery
No tongue hath ever told,
As she looketh down in purity,
So bright, and fair, and cold.
But my heart forgets its dreaminess,
Its once so frequent thrill;
And gazeth upon loveliness
With pulses strangely still.
I can not tear myself away,
I can not break the spell;
But it doth strengthen day by day,
Repulse it as I will.
