THE WREATH.
217
The ground she trod, the air she breathed,
The blossoms in her dark hair wreathed,
Her smile, her voice, to Mirza’s eyes
More precious seem'd than Paradise.
Yet was the silence sweet unbroken
By vows in which young love is spoken.
But when the heart has but one dream
For midnight gloom or noontide beam,
And one, at least, knows well what power
Is ruling, words will find their hour;
Though after growth of grief and pain,
May wish those words unsaid again.
‘T was sunset, and the glorious heaven
To Leila’s cheek and eye seem'd given;
