70
THE DESERTED.
The raging tumult of my soul, and still
The fierce strife in my lonely breast where pride
Is fiercely struggling for control. Each hue
Of purple, gold and crimson that flits o'er
The western sky, recalls some by-gone joy,
That we have shared together, and my soul
Is love's and memory's
The fierce strife in my lonely breast where pride
Is fiercely struggling for control. Each hue
Of purple, gold and crimson that flits o'er
The western sky, recalls some by-gone joy,
That we have shared together, and my soul
Is love's and memory's
As here I sit
In loneliness, the thought comes o'er my heart,
How side by side in moonlight eves, while soft
The rose-winged hours were flitting by, we stood
Beside that clear and gently-murmuring fount
O'erhung with wild and blooming vines, and felt
The spirit of a holy love bedew
Our hearts' own budding blossoms. There I drank
The wild, o'ermasterlng tide of eloquence
That flowed from thy o'erwrought and burning soul.
There thou didst twine a wreath of sweetest flowers
To shine amid my dark brown locks, and now
Beside me lies a bud, the little bud
In loneliness, the thought comes o'er my heart,
How side by side in moonlight eves, while soft
The rose-winged hours were flitting by, we stood
Beside that clear and gently-murmuring fount
O'erhung with wild and blooming vines, and felt
The spirit of a holy love bedew
Our hearts' own budding blossoms. There I drank
The wild, o'ermasterlng tide of eloquence
That flowed from thy o'erwrought and burning soul.
There thou didst twine a wreath of sweetest flowers
To shine amid my dark brown locks, and now
Beside me lies a bud, the little bud
