Margaret.
279
For passion pales to sorrow where
Yon sculptured angel kneels in prayer,
And passion's lightest breath would scare
The holy calm that watches there;
For all love's wealth I may not dare
To touch lip, brow, or curlèd hair.
But when slow Even disappears
Out of the west, and over all,
Twilight is hanging like a pall
Thick dropped with silver tears;
When from lone river and wet marsh moss,
The mist climbs up to the chapel cross
And over the vale, a spectral sea,
Closes its waves on mine and me,
In the shadowy aisles, by the marble white
I watch till dawn blooms out of night.
Not yours yon passive bride, De l'Orme,
With pallid cheek and sealed eye;
You never loved her living form
As I her snow-cold effigy.
Yon sculptured angel kneels in prayer,
And passion's lightest breath would scare
The holy calm that watches there;
For all love's wealth I may not dare
To touch lip, brow, or curlèd hair.
But when slow Even disappears
Out of the west, and over all,
Twilight is hanging like a pall
Thick dropped with silver tears;
When from lone river and wet marsh moss,
The mist climbs up to the chapel cross
And over the vale, a spectral sea,
Closes its waves on mine and me,
In the shadowy aisles, by the marble white
I watch till dawn blooms out of night.
Not yours yon passive bride, De l'Orme,
With pallid cheek and sealed eye;
You never loved her living form
As I her snow-cold effigy.
