Poems (Piatt)/Volume 2/Her Metaphors
HER METAPHORS.
A fairy dream that stole, With evanescent light,Across thy wakened soul, One early Autumn night— Am I not this to thee?
A lone and languid rose That in thy care might bloom,But on the distance throws, Vainly, its vague perfume— Am I not this to thee?
A faint and trembling star That drew thine eyes awhile,Still shining on afar, Deserted by thy smile— Am I not this to thee?
A pearl cast at thy feet And worn by thee an hour,Then left where fierce waves beat, The plaything of their power— Am I not this to thee?
A half remembered strain, That once could charm thine ear,Whose music thou again Wilt sometimes sigh to hear— Am I not this to thee?