MOONLIGHT.
Soft the all-embracing moonlight,Holds the lone one in its arms,And the nerves, high strung to sorrow,With its lambent touch disarms.From its softness I could modelMany an image fair and free,But to-night I yield this power,It shall work its will on me.
Oh! this weary human longingFor companions all mine own,Oh! these eyes bereft of beauty,Oh! this ear, unblest of tone!Oh! these lips that, prest to marbleTurn to marble with its cold,Oh! these dreams, whose empty throngingLeaves the heart, all unconsoled,—
