Oh, thou wast but a breathing MayEmbodied by delicious dreams,And drifted o'er my wandering wayOn fancy's swift and shining streams.Thine eyes were only violets,Thy lips but buds of crimson bloom,Thy hair, coiled sunshine—vain regrets!Thy soul, a brief perfume.
So, when the time of mists and chillsFell where the sweet wild roses grew,And took them from the shadowy hills,It took my lovely vision too;And when I came again to findThe charm which used to fill the air,A sorrow struck me mute and blind—Thou wast not anywhere!
Yet something met me in thy place,Something, they said, with looks like thine,With tresses full of golden graceAnd lips flushed red with beauty's wine;With voice of silvery swells and fallsAnd dreamy eyes still sweetly blue—But, then, the reptile's nature crawlsBeneath the rainbow's hue.
Woman, all things below, above,Look pale and drear and glimmering now,For I have loved thee with a loveWhose passionate deeps such things as thouMay never sound. And, with a moan,The chilled tide of that love has rolledAbove my heart, and made it stone,And oh, so cold, so cold!
I saw thee by a magic lampWhose warm and gorgeous blaze is gone,And o'er me shivers, grey and damp,The dimness of the real dawn.Oh, I am like to one who standsWhere late a vision smiled in air,And murmurs, with outstretching hands,"Where is my Angel—where?"
