104
TO ——.
No mote may shun—no tiniest fly—
The light'ning of his eagle eye—
How was it that Ambition crept,
Unseen, amid the revels there,
Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
In the tangles of Love's very hair?
TO ——.
The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
The wantonest singing birds,
Are lips— and all thy melody
Of lip-begotten words—
Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined
Then desolately fall,
O God! on my funereal mind
Like starlight on a pall—
Thy heart—thy heart!—I wake and sigh
And sleep to dream till day
Of the truth that gold can never buy—
Of the baubles that it may.
