Poems (Osgood)/To Lizzie

by Frances Sargent Osgood

TO LIZZIE.

Mine own sweet sister, wheresoe'er I go
I hear thy voice melodiously low;
Thine eyes, thy soft, dark, eloquent, loving eyes,
Before me in remember'd beauty rise!

Doth nature robe her form in rich array,
 Wreathing her brow with stars for jewels rare
Zoning her waist with the green moss of May,
 And broid'ring all her vest with blossoms fair?

Do her sweet tones—sweet as thine own the while,
 Forth from my home my willing feet allure,
To wander in the warm light of her smile,
 And bare my forehead to her breathing pure .

I sigh and think—if thou wert with me now,
 Exulting in thy youth, and health, and glee,
How wouldst thou toss the ringlets from thy brow,
 And join in all her joyous revelry!

How would thy heart's enthusiast pulses beat,
 Thy voice with all its wealth of music rise,
Her ever changing melody to meet,
 Love in thy soul, and rapture in thine eyes!

Oh! sweetest, loveliest! would that thou wert here,
 Heaven loses half her holy light to me;
Earth is ungraced with all her spring-tide gear,
 And life itself worth little without thee!