And this fair evening, with remembrance teeming,
Pierces my soul with every sharp regret;
The sweetest beauty saddens to my seeming,
Since all that's fair forbids me to forget.
Eyes that have gazed upon yon silver crescent,
'Till filled with light, then turned to gaze in mine,
Lips that could clothe a fancy evanescent,
In words whose magic thrilled the brain like wine:
Hands that have wreathed June's roses in my tresses,
And gathered violets to deck my breast,
Where are ye now? I miss your dear caresses—
I miss the lips, the eyes, that made me blest.
Lonely I sit and watch the fitful burning
Of prairie fires, far off, through gathering gloom;
While the young moon, and one bright star returning
Down the blue solitude, leave Night their room.
Gone is the glimmer of the silent river;
Hushed is the wind that sped the leaves to-day;
Alone through silence falls the crystal shiver
Of the sweet starlight, on its earthward way.
And yet I wait, how vainly! for a token—
A sigh, a touch, a whisper from the past;
Alas, I listen for a word unspoken,
And wail for arms that have embraced their last.
I wish no more, as once I wished, each feeling
To grow immortal in my happy breast;
Since not to feel will leave no wounds for healing—
The pulse that thrills not has no need of rest.
As the conviction sinks into my spirit
That my quick heart is doomed to death in life;
Or that these pangs must pierce and never sear it,
I am abandoned to despairing strife.
