Poems Sigourney 1834/Twilight
TWILIGHT.
I would ye had not glared on me so soon,
Officious lamps!—that gild the parlour scene
With such oppressive brightness.—They were here
Whose garments like the tissue of our dreams
Steal o'er the eye, and win it from the world.
They smiled on me so sweetly, and their hands
Clasped mine, and their calm presence wooed away
The throb of grief so tenderly,—I would
That twilight to the purple peep of dawn
Had kindly lingered.—
She, who nearest hung,
Pressing my head to her meek, matron breast,
Was one who lulled me to my cradle sleep,
With such blest melodies as memory pours
Fresh from her echo-harp, when the fond heart
Asks for its buried joys.—Slow years have sown
Rank rooted herbage o'er her lowly couch
Since she arose to chant that endless song
Which hath no dissonance.—
Another form
Sat at her feet, whose brow was bright with bloom
When the cold grave shut o'er it.—It hath left
Its image every where, upon my books,
My bower of musing, and my page of thought,
And the lone altar of the secret soul.—
Would that those lips had spoken!—yet I hear
Always their ring-dove murmuring, when I tread
Our wonted shady haunts.—
Say, is there aught
Like the tried friendship of the sacred dead?
It cannot hide its face, it changeth not,
Grieves not, suspects not, may not fleet away,
For as a seal upon the melted heart
Tis set forever.—Sure 'tis weak to mourn
Though thorns are at the bosom, or the blasts
Of this bleak world beat harshly, if there come
Such angel-visitants at even-tide,
Or midnight's holy hush, to cleanse away
The stains which day hath gathered, and with touch
Pure and ethereal to sublimate
The erring spirit.