WAITING.
I cannot wean my wayward heart from waiting,
Though the steps watched for never come anear;
The wearying want clings to it unabating—
The fruitless wish for presences once dear.
No fairer eve e'er blessed a poet's vision,
No softer airs e'er kissed a fevered brow,
No scene more truly could be called Elysian,
Than this which holds my gaze enchanted now.
And yet I pine;—this beautiful completeness
Is incomplete, to my desiring heart;
'Tis Beauty's form, without her soul of sweetness—
The pure, but chiseled loveliness of art.
There is no longer pleasure in emotion.
I envy those dead souls no touch can thrill,
Who "painted ships upon a painted ocean,"—
Seem to be moved, yet are forever still.
Where are they fled?—they whose delightful voices,
Whose very footsteps had a charmed fall:
No more, no more their sound my heart rejoices,
Change, death, and distance part me now from all.
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