—And is not the great language mute
The stars' deep looks are wont to melt
Upon my soul, the very suit
Of this unearthly wooer—felt
So clearly pleading—I have knelt
Full oft, most dreading to pollute
The holy rapture with a sigh?
And doth not every accent nigh
Consume each Past to a thin shred;
While endless visions glorify
My sight, and haloes touch my head?
Yea, mystic consummation! yea,
O Wondrous suitor,—whosoe'er
Thou art; that in such mighty way,
In distant realms, athwart the air
And lands and seas, with all things fair,
Hast wooed me even till this day;—
It seems thou drawest near to me;
Or I, indeed, so nigh to thee,
I catch rare breaths of a delight
From thy most glorious country, see
Its distant glow upon some height.
Page:An epic of women and other poems (IA epicofwomenother00osha).pdf/47
This page needs to be proofread.
