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THE IDEAL.
I know thou dwell’st not in this dull cold Real,
I know thy home is in some brighter sphere;
I know I shall not meet thee, my Ideal!
In the dark wanderings that await me here—
Why comes thy gentle image then to me,
Wasting my night of life in one long dream of thee?
I know thy home is in some brighter sphere;
I know I shall not meet thee, my Ideal!
In the dark wanderings that await me here—
Why comes thy gentle image then to me,
Wasting my night of life in one long dream of thee?
The city’s peopled solitude, the glare
Of festal halls, moonlight and music’s tone,
All breathe the sad refrain, thou art not there;
And even with Nature, I am still alone;
With joy I watch her summer bloom depart—
I love drear winter’s reign—’tis winter in my heart.
Of festal halls, moonlight and music’s tone,
All breathe the sad refrain, thou art not there;
And even with Nature, I am still alone;
With joy I watch her summer bloom depart—
I love drear winter’s reign—’tis winter in my heart.
And if I sigh upon my brow to see
The deepening shadow of Time’s fleeting wing,
’Tis for the youth I might not give to thee,—
The vanished brightness of my first sweet spring;
That I might give thee not the joyous form,
Unworn by bitter tears, unblighted by the storm.
The deepening shadow of Time’s fleeting wing,
’Tis for the youth I might not give to thee,—
The vanished brightness of my first sweet spring;
That I might give thee not the joyous form,
Unworn by bitter tears, unblighted by the storm.
And when the hearts I should be proud to win,
Breathe, in those tones that woman holds so dear,
Words of impassioned homage unto mine,
Coldly and harsh they fall upon my ear;
And as I listen to the fervent vow,
My weary heart replies, “Alas! it is not thou!”
Breathe, in those tones that woman holds so dear,
Words of impassioned homage unto mine,
Coldly and harsh they fall upon my ear;
And as I listen to the fervent vow,
My weary heart replies, “Alas! it is not thou!”
