They tell me that thy wit when gay
Will turn to sad again—
The likeness of the lightning ray,
That melts in summer rain;
And that the magic of thy words
Is even as thy song—
The sweetness of the sea-shell chords
The night-winds bear along.
I well believe all they can say
Of fairy charm is thine—
My lips are murmuring now thy lay,
My tears on thy last line:
I've drank the music, sweet and low,
Waked by thy graceful hand;
I must speak of thee—I am now
"Beneath the enchanter's wand."
I dream thee beautiful and bright,
Amid the festal crowd,
With lip and eye of flashing light,
Thy own self disavowed.
They see the loveliness that burns,
The splendour round the shrine—
But not the poet-soul which turns
Thy nature to divine.
I dream thee in thy lonely hour,
Thy long dark hair unbound,
The braiding pearl, the wreathing flower,
Flung careless on the ground;
The crimson eager on thy cheek,
The light dark in thine eye—
While from thy parted lips there break
Sweet sounds, half song, half sigh.
A tale of feminine fond love,
The tender and the tried,
The heart's sweet faith, which looks above,
Long after hope has died.
Even as the Spring comes to the rose,
And flings its leaves apart,
So what should woman's hand unclose?—
The page of woman's heart.
