THE WREATH.
215
A very boy, I yet recall
The dark light of thine eye's charm'd thrall;
Beneath thy worshipp'd cypress leant,
And flowers with thy breathing blent,
Less pure, less beautiful than thou,
I see thee; and I hear thee now
Singing sweet to the twilight dim—
Could it be sin?—thy vesper hymn.
Burnt a sweet light in that fair shrine,
At once too earthly, too divine;
The heart's vain struggle to create
An Eden not for mortal state.
Love, who shall say that thou art not
The dearest blessing of our lot?
P 4
