And the pale stars among,
I see the star I love to name as mine:
But toward the south I turn my eager eyes—
Beyond its flushed horizon my heart lies.
The snow-clad isles of ice,
Launched by wild Boreas from a northern shore,
Journey the way my eyes
Turn with an envious longing evermore—
Smiling back to the sky
Its own pink blush, and, floating out of sight,
Bear south the softest dye
Of northern heavens, to fade in southern night:—
My eyes but look the way my joys are gone,
And the ice-islands travel not alone.
The untrod fields of snow,
Glow with the rosy blush of parting day;
And fancy asks if so
The snow is stained with sunset far away;
And if some face, like mine,
Its forehead pressed against the window-pane,
Peers northward, with the shine
Of the pole-star reflected in eyes' rain:
"Ah yes," my heart says, "it is surely so;"
And, like a bound bird, flutters hard to go.
Sad eyes, that, blurred with tears,
Gaze into darkness, gaze no more in vain
Whence no loved face appears,
And no voice comes to lull the heart's fond pain!
Sad heart! restrain thy throbs,
For beauty, like a presence out of heaven,
Rests over all, and robs
Sorrow of pain, and makes earth seem forgiven:—
Twilight the fair eve ushers in with grace,
And rose clouds melt for stars to take their place.
