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ZENOBIA.
57
I feel the light within my eyes,
The colour on my cheek;
My life beats till I cannot breathe,
I am too glad to speak.
He goes—it is the setting sun
That leaves the world in night;
Pale, faint, I lean against the wall—
My life has lost its light.
I sleep—his name is on my lips,
It murmurs through my dreams,
And present with the waking day
His early image seems.
Love is a fearful thing—a love
So fervent and so fond,
That has no other hope in life,
And dares not look beyond.
Ah, every cause for which I love,
A cause of fear must be:
So proud, so worshipped, can he waste
A single thought on me?
I would lay down my life, so he
My soul's deep fondness knew;
Alas! I can but dream of all
I have not power to do.
I
