Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/Thoughts of Thee
THOUGHTS OF THEE.
As the wild-bird, when the spring-flower
Cometh back once more,
Seeketh the same greenwood bower
It had loved before;
So my memory never loseth
Its sad dream of thee;
But my heart around it closeth,
Fondly, mournfully.
It doth bide with me forever,
Waking or asleep—
Murmuring like some mournful river,
Low, and wild, and deep.
Every thing that's good and lovely,
All fair things I see,
Do like hidden music move me,
With sad dreams of thee.
Summer clouds are beautiful,
And sunny spots in groves;
And the gushing of a waterfall
Hath a melting voice like love's;
And the young moon hath a witchery
No tongue hath ever told,
As she looketh down in purity,
So bright, and fair, and cold.
But my heart forgets its dreaminess,
Its once so frequent thrill;
And gazeth upon loveliness
With pulses strangely still.
I can not tear myself away,
I can not break the spell;
But it doth strengthen day by day,
Repulse it as I will.
For there was not the smallest thing
That was admired by thee,
To which my spirit does not cling
Watchfully, tenderly.
I sit beneath the evening sky,
And look upon the moon,
And the fitful breeze comes flutt'ring by,
With a low and hollow tune;
And I see our beacon star come up,
And rise above the trees,
And the dew is in the Iris' cup,
But what to me are these?
I know thou wilt not come again,
As was thy wont of old;
And I press my burning brow in pain,
And wish the night were told:
For the moonlight teems with memory,
And the stars burn on my sight;
And every thing doth talk of thee,
In the stillness of the night.
In dreams I sometimes see thy face,
But nothing kind is there;
I meet thy mute, forgetful gaze,
With still but deep despair.
The sunliglit is too bright for me,
And pleasant days seem long;
Laughter is but a mockery,
And the voice of happy song.
I do not weep, but crush my heart,
That I may seem to be
Unwounded by the poison dart
That was prepared for me.
My spirit walks the earth apart,
Weary and alone,
And not a chord in all my heart,
But hath a broken tone.
The chords that once so wildly rung
To mirth and melody,
Are silent now, or only strung
To mournful thoughts of thee