TIMID LOVE
S. J. NADSON (B. 1862, d. 1887).
Oft of thy love, my friend, I fondly dreamed;
Such musings made my glad heart throb like flame.
But yet, whene’er I met thy happy glance,
Straightway perplexed and troubled I became.
I feared the impulse soon would pass away,
Thy short caprice of sympathy be flown,
And I, who dreamed of bliss beyond my reach,
Be doubly orphaned, left again alone.
As if thy love were stolen, thy caress,
Sweet and unhoped for, were a phantom frail,
It gleamed, lit up the dark, and then was gone,
Brief as a sound, false as a fairy tale;
As if thy tender, deep-blue glance, my love,
By chance or by mistake were given to me;
And in my feverish dreams at night it seems
That with the coming of the dawn ’twill flee.
Thus, parched by desert heats, a wanderer
Spies an oasis, but he doubts it yet;
Is it not some mirage in yon blue sky
Alluring him to rest and to forget?
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