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THE CRIMSON ROSE.
THE CRIMSON ROSE.
Hast thou no voice to answer to mine own,
To murmur forth one trembling music-tone,
To breathe one hope and bid it not depart,
To gather from the past one single hour,
To pour upon the mind one golden shower?
Rose of the burning heart!
To murmur forth one trembling music-tone,
To breathe one hope and bid it not depart,
To gather from the past one single hour,
To pour upon the mind one golden shower?
Rose of the burning heart!
To please the mind upon the self-same spot,
To call to memory the very thought
Thy strange, wild beauty bringeth? And to be
A thing of inspiration—calling back,
Along life's tearful and repentant track,
One blessed thought of thee?
To call to memory the very thought
Thy strange, wild beauty bringeth? And to be
A thing of inspiration—calling back,
Along life's tearful and repentant track,
One blessed thought of thee?
Answer me, thou that liftest thy crimson cheek,
Unto the azure heavens, as though to speak
Thy blushing praises at a nobler shrine!
Answer me! will the same exquisite glow
That thrills my frame, while gazing on thee now,
In after years, be mine?
Unto the azure heavens, as though to speak
Thy blushing praises at a nobler shrine!
Answer me! will the same exquisite glow
That thrills my frame, while gazing on thee now,
In after years, be mine?
Shall I steal back again into the past,
And live again those hours that would not last,
Shrouding from view the intervening space?
Or shall I snatch one picture from their grasp,
Which tearful memory once again would clasp,
To gaze on its sweet face?
And live again those hours that would not last,
Shrouding from view the intervening space?
Or shall I snatch one picture from their grasp,
Which tearful memory once again would clasp,
To gaze on its sweet face?
