Poems (Eckley)/On the Bridge

by Sophia May Eckley

ON THE BRIDGE.

N the Arno's bridge I stood,
 To watch the feverish day
Die upon her couch of cloud,
 Curtained soft in silvery grey;
Sultry, sultry grew the night,
Dark except the cold moon-light;

And her garments dropt in gold,
 And floated on the river,
While the shadows vainly tried
 The rippling folds to sever;
Still I mused upon the night,
Dark except that gift of light.

Then the distant hills of Lucca,
 Armoured knights as sentries stood—
Their broad shields glist'ning as the rills
 Of light float down in wayward mood;
And the heavy languid night
Was dark except that gift of light.

Later still the death of day
 Folds the landscape in embrace,
And the sluggish river mopes,
 Black, and deep, and rippleless;
Sultry, deathly, grew the night,
Dark except that gift of light.

Thus it is with present life,
 Till folded safe in death's embrace,
He bears us down the silent river,
 Dark, and deep, and rippleless;
Tho' long and weary be the way,
The dawn will break in endless day.