Poems (Botta)/To - (7)

by Anne Lynch Botta

For works with similar titles, see To — (Botta).

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TO ——.

The brilliant west is glowing,
 With sunset’s farewell ray;
The silver waves are flowing,
 On to the distant sea;

The pale bright stars are keeping
 Their watch through night’s still hours;
The dews in joy are weeping
 Above the new-born flowers;

The city’s hum is dying
 Upon the perfumed breeze,
That wanders, softly sighing,
 Among the flower-crowned trees.

But my vagrant thoughts are roaming
 To loved ones far away;
I heed not twilight’s coming,
 Nor flowers, nor winds at play.

Of a low, sweet voice I’m dreaming,
 More soft than the southwinds are,
Of a gentle eye that is beaming,
 More bright than the Evening Star;

And I read as many pages
 In the depths of that hazel eye,
As were read by the Chaldean sages,
 In the glittering stars on high;

And the dreams that float under the cover
 Of those snowy lids of thine,
The thoughts in that young heart that hover,
 I have magic power to divine.