The unwilling eye the dark road wanders o'er
Backward it looks, but closed it sees the door.
And now within itself is closed this breast,
As though it ne'er were open, and as though,
Vying with ev'ry star, no moments blest
Had, in its presence, felt a kindling glow;
Sadness, reproach, repentance, weight of care,
Hang heavy on it in the sultry air.
Is not the world still left? The rocky steeps,
Are they with holy shades no longer crowned?
Grows not the harvest ripe? No longer creeps
The espalier by the stream,—the copse around?
Doth not the wondrous arch of heaven still rise,
Now rich in shape, now shapeless to the eyes?
As, seraph-like, from out the dark clouds' chorus,
With softness woven, graceful, light, and fair,
Resembling Her, in the blue æther o'er us,
A slender figure hovers in the air,—
Thus didst thou see her joyously advance,
The fairest of the fairest in the dance.
Yet but a moment dost thou boldly dare
To clasp an airy form instead of hers;
Back to thine heart! thou'lt find it better there,
For there in changeful guise her image stirs;
What erst was one, to many turneth fast,
In thousand forms, each dearer than the last.
As at the door, on meeting, lingered she,
And step by step my faithful ardour blessed,
For the last kiss herself entreated me,
And on my lips the last, last kiss impressed,—
Thus clearly traced, the loved one's form we view,
With flames engraven on a heart so true,—
