128
Poems
And her robe's glittering white, gem-decked, and fair,—
A raiment meet,—leaves arms and shoulders bare.
A raiment meet,—leaves arms and shoulders bare.
She stands a moment's space,—in silence stands,—
With eyes uplifted, clasped and drooping hands,
As one might idly watch a flight of birds;—
And then, quick-rushing, comes a flood of words.
Glory the theme her rainbow fancy weaves
Into thoughts, varied as the Autumn leaves.
A subtle something, from that poet soul,
To every hushed and waiting spirit stole;—
Like wafted fragrance on the summer air,
Or dream of waters in a desert bare.
With eyes uplifted, clasped and drooping hands,
As one might idly watch a flight of birds;—
And then, quick-rushing, comes a flood of words.
Glory the theme her rainbow fancy weaves
Into thoughts, varied as the Autumn leaves.
A subtle something, from that poet soul,
To every hushed and waiting spirit stole;—
Like wafted fragrance on the summer air,
Or dream of waters in a desert bare.
Why heaves that breast in such mad tumult now?
Why glides the lily hand across the brow,—
As though her brain were clouded, and she fain
Would clear it of a spell that brought but pain;
Why does that voice—erstwhile so silvery clear,
Bearing sweet music to each listening ear,—
Touching the heart, as but true genius may,—
Break, falter, and in silence die away?
A woman,—a mere woman! there she stands,
Why glides the lily hand across the brow,—
As though her brain were clouded, and she fain
Would clear it of a spell that brought but pain;
Why does that voice—erstwhile so silvery clear,
Bearing sweet music to each listening ear,—
Touching the heart, as but true genius may,—
Break, falter, and in silence die away?
A woman,—a mere woman! there she stands,
