Poems (Welby)/Hopeless Love
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HOPELESS LOVE.
The trembling waves beneath the moonbeams quiver
Reflecting back the blue, unclouded skies;
The stars look down upon the still bright river,
And smile to see themselves in paradise;
Sweet songs are heard to gush from joyous bosoms,
That lightly throb beneath the greenwood tree,
And glossy plumes float in amid the blossoms,
And all around are happy—all but me!
Reflecting back the blue, unclouded skies;
The stars look down upon the still bright river,
And smile to see themselves in paradise;
Sweet songs are heard to gush from joyous bosoms,
That lightly throb beneath the greenwood tree,
And glossy plumes float in amid the blossoms,
And all around are happy—all but me!
And yet, I come beneath the light, that trembles
O'er these dim paths, with listless steps to roam,
For here my bursting heart no more dissembles,
My sad lips quiver, and the tear-drops come;
I come once more to list the low- voiced turtle,
To watch the dreamy waters as they flow,
And lay me down beneath the fragrant myrtle,
That drops its blossoms when the west winds blow
O'er these dim paths, with listless steps to roam,
For here my bursting heart no more dissembles,
My sad lips quiver, and the tear-drops come;
I come once more to list the low- voiced turtle,
To watch the dreamy waters as they flow,
And lay me down beneath the fragrant myrtle,
That drops its blossoms when the west winds blow
O! there is one, on whose sweet face I ponder,
One angel-being 'mid the beauteous band,
Who in the evening's hush comes out to wander
Amid the dark-eyed daughters of the land!
Her step is lightest where each light foot presses,
Her song is sweetest 'mid their songs of glee,
Smiles light her lips, and rose-buds, 'mid her tresses,
Look lightly up their dark redundancy.
One angel-being 'mid the beauteous band,
Who in the evening's hush comes out to wander
Amid the dark-eyed daughters of the land!
Her step is lightest where each light foot presses,
Her song is sweetest 'mid their songs of glee,
Smiles light her lips, and rose-buds, 'mid her tresses,
Look lightly up their dark redundancy.
Youth, wealth, and fame are mine—all, that entrances
The youthful heart, on me their charms confer;
Sweet lips smile on me too, and melting glances
Flash up to mine—but not a glance from her!
I would give youth, beauty, fame, and splendor,
My all of bliss—my every hope resign,
To wake in that young heart one feeling tender—
To clasp that little hand, and call it mine!
The youthful heart, on me their charms confer;
Sweet lips smile on me too, and melting glances
Flash up to mine—but not a glance from her!
I would give youth, beauty, fame, and splendor,
My all of bliss—my every hope resign,
To wake in that young heart one feeling tender—
To clasp that little hand, and call it mine!
In this sweet solitude the sunny weather
Hath called to life light shapes, and fairy-elves,
The rose-buds lay their crimson lips together
And the green leaves are whispering to themselves;
The clear, faint starlight on the blue wave flushes
And, filled with odors sweet, the south wind blows,
The purple clusters load the lilac-bushes,
And fragrant blossoms fringe the apple-boughs.
Hath called to life light shapes, and fairy-elves,
The rose-buds lay their crimson lips together
And the green leaves are whispering to themselves;
The clear, faint starlight on the blue wave flushes
And, filled with odors sweet, the south wind blows,
The purple clusters load the lilac-bushes,
And fragrant blossoms fringe the apple-boughs.
Yet, I am sick with love and melancholy,
My locks are heavy with the dropping dew,
Low murmurs haunt me—murmurs soft and holy,
And O, my lips keep murmuring, murmuring too!
I hate the beauty of these calm, sweet bowers.
The bird's wild music, and the fountain's fall;
O! I am sick in this lone land of flowers,
My soul is weary—weary of them all!
My locks are heavy with the dropping dew,
Low murmurs haunt me—murmurs soft and holy,
And O, my lips keep murmuring, murmuring too!
I hate the beauty of these calm, sweet bowers.
The bird's wild music, and the fountain's fall;
O! I am sick in this lone land of flowers,
My soul is weary—weary of them all!
Yet had I that sweet face, on which I ponder,
To bloom for me within this Eden-home,
That lip to sweetly murmur when I wander,
That cheek to softly dimple when I come,
How sweet would glide my days in these lone bowers,
Far from the world and all its heartless throngs,
Her fairy feet should only tread on flowers,
I 'd make her home melodious with my songs!
To bloom for me within this Eden-home,
That lip to sweetly murmur when I wander,
That cheek to softly dimple when I come,
How sweet would glide my days in these lone bowers,
Far from the world and all its heartless throngs,
Her fairy feet should only tread on flowers,
I 'd make her home melodious with my songs!
Ah me! such blissful hopes once filled my bosom,
And dreams of fame could then my heart enthrall,
And joy and bliss around me seemed to blossom,
But O! these blissful hopes are blighted—all!
No smiling angel decks these Eden-bowers,
No springing footstep echoes mine in glee—
O I am weary in this land of flowers!
I sigh—I sigh amid them all—ah me!
And dreams of fame could then my heart enthrall,
And joy and bliss around me seemed to blossom,
But O! these blissful hopes are blighted—all!
No smiling angel decks these Eden-bowers,
No springing footstep echoes mine in glee—
O I am weary in this land of flowers!
I sigh—I sigh amid them all—ah me!