This page has been validated.
Ah, well! if I have lost to fate
The greatest boon that heaven disposes,
And closed upon myself the gate
To fields of bliss, 'tis on these roses,
On this intoxicating air,
The witching influence of the moon,
The poet's rhymes that went in tune
To the night's voices low and rare—
To all that goes to make such hours
Like hasheesh-dreams. These did defy,
With contrary fate-compelling power
The intended bliss;—'twas June, not I.
Lancaster, Ohio, 1860.
LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
The highest use of happy love is this,
To make us loving to the loveless ones;
Willing, indeed, to halve our meed of bliss;
If our sweet plenty others' want atones;
Of love's abundance may God give thee store,
To spend in love's sweet charities, Lenore.
18
