THE POET-LOVER.
105
Your fragrance on the feeble wave?
Why yield to them, who will not seek,
Why answer them, who will not speak?"
He thought upon a young rose-cheek,
And snatched them from a certain grave.
Why yield to them, who will not seek,
Why answer them, who will not speak?"
He thought upon a young rose-cheek,
And snatched them from a certain grave.
He heard the wild wave's melody
Float on mysterious pinions by,
As if an angel hovered nigh,
And caught the music from the stream,
Half sad, half solemn, half sublime,
Stealing upon the steps of time;
Sounding at every step a chime,
Like strange, wild music of a dream.
Float on mysterious pinions by,
As if an angel hovered nigh,
And caught the music from the stream,
Half sad, half solemn, half sublime,
Stealing upon the steps of time;
Sounding at every step a chime,
Like strange, wild music of a dream.
"O, haunted spring," he cried, "how long
Shall I sit listening to thy song,
And mark the spirit-shadows throng,
All dim and indistinct within?
I've heard on this enchanted ground,
A thousand changeful voices round;
Yet cannot recollect one sound,
Of all my thirsty soul drank in.
Shall I sit listening to thy song,
And mark the spirit-shadows throng,
All dim and indistinct within?
I've heard on this enchanted ground,
A thousand changeful voices round;
Yet cannot recollect one sound,
Of all my thirsty soul drank in.
"I've striven long—still strive in vain—
To catch one single music-strain;
They rise and float within my brain,
Like strangers on a foreign strand;
A glance half- treasured, and no more,
A longing for a journey o'er—
A backward look along the shore,
And then the joys of fatherland!
To catch one single music-strain;
They rise and float within my brain,
Like strangers on a foreign strand;
A glance half- treasured, and no more,
A longing for a journey o'er—
A backward look along the shore,
And then the joys of fatherland!
