The heart still sadly longeth, and in vain;
For earth is insufficient to its love,
And many a wild and startling thrill of pain,
Its too keen sensitiveness still doth prove.
But there is such a joy, a joy so sweet—
So pure a transport in an hour like this—
When heart from heart an answering throb may meet,
In union to which silence adds a bliss;
When the soft clasp of a caressing hand,
Or the clear glance of an expressive eye,
Can make the mutual spirit understand
All the fine thoughts that in its depths may lie.
Our pleasures are so sweet that we forget
That we have grieved for suffering or sin,
And only feel a sad and soft regret
That all is not forever thus within.
O night! thy solemn beauty fills my soul
With a deep rapture, not unlike to prayer;
Delicious joy, which I would not control,
And only to be perfect need to share.
If there are hours when the soul receives
On its unwritten pages worlds of thought,
Methinks that now some spirit's spotless leaves
Full many a bright imagining hath caught;
And many a note of song, the voiceless song
Of the soul, mingled with the viewless choir
Thrilling all nature, and whose tones belong
To the great Source that nature doth inspire.
