Poems (Blind)/Aspirations/IX.

by Mathilde Blind

IX.

Sometimes, in the summer night, Floating o'er the silent deep,Did my fingers in their flight Through the slumbering waters sweep.

Raising then my hand, I spied Drops of ocean-fire and lightFrom my gleaming fingers slide, Like the shooting-stars of night.

Thus I dipped, with gliding thought Thro' thy deep, mysterious soul;Now, with light and fire full-fraught, O'er me dazzling doth it roll.