Poems (Blind)/Aspirations/IX.

by Mathilde Blind

IX.

Sometimes, in the summer night,
 Floating o'er the silent deep,
Did my fingers in their flight
 Through the slumbering waters sweep.

Raising then my hand, I spied
 Drops of ocean-fire and light
From my gleaming fingers slide,
 Like the shooting-stars of night.

Thus I dipped, with gliding thought
 Thro' thy deep, mysterious soul;
Now, with light and fire full-fraught,
 O'er me dazzling doth it roll.