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?
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?
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?
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?
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?
That once could charm thine ear,
Whose music thou again
Wilt sometimes sigh to hear—
Am I not this to thee?