At one end is a cavern, musical
With falling waters: roof, and floor, and walls
Are set with sparry gems, snow turned to treasure;
Beyond is black as night, or grief, or death,
And thence there comes a silent stream, which takes
Onward its quiet course, then, through a break,
The only one amid the mountains, goes
Down to the world below. And it should be
My task in fanciful similitudes
To trace a likeness for my destiny.
Those pale blue violets, which in despite
Of snow, or wind, or soil, cling to the rock
In lonely beauty—they are like my love,
My woman's love: it grew up amid cares
And coldness, yet still like those flowers it lived
On in its fragrance: but far happier they,
They rest in their lone home's security,
While, rooted from its dear abode, my love
Was scattered suddenly upon the wind,
To wither and to die. And the blue stream
Will be another emblem: cold and calm
It leaves its dwelling-place,—soon over rocks
Torrents like headlong passions hurry it—
Its waters lose their clearness, weeds and sands
Choke it like evil deeds, and banks upraised
By human art, obstruct and turn its course,
Till, worn out by long wanderings, it seeks,
Its strength gone by, some little quiet nook
Where it may waste its tired waves away.
So in this solitude might I depart,
My death unwatch'd! I could not bear to die,
And yet see life and love in some dear eye.
Why should I wish to leave some faithful one
With bleeding heart to break above my grave?
Oh no,—I do but wish to pass away
Unloved and unremembered! L. E. L
