A Trois Temps.
78
She—
Hush, oh, hush! See, I am here.
Remember nothing else; it is enough.
My hand is in your own. Let that suffice.
Oh! see, my hand is in your own, and let
The rich entreaty of the music sweep
Our spirits to as rhythmical a chord
As this our feet have found. Ah! when your arm
Is round me, 'tis as though a rampart stood
About my soul, and fenced its rapture in.
Oh! only think of this.
Hush, oh, hush! See, I am here.
Remember nothing else; it is enough.
My hand is in your own. Let that suffice.
Oh! see, my hand is in your own, and let
The rich entreaty of the music sweep
Our spirits to as rhythmical a chord
As this our feet have found. Ah! when your arm
Is round me, 'tis as though a rampart stood
About my soul, and fenced its rapture in.
Oh! only think of this.
He—
Your voice infects my blood; it is a balm
That anodynes that gaping wound—my life;
It lulls the sobbing of my passions as
The mother-hand that soothes, with magic touch,
An infant's crying. I am glad to cry
Because it brings the healing of your voice.
But—Heaven help us! this we linger in,
This paradise of fools———
Your voice infects my blood; it is a balm
That anodynes that gaping wound—my life;
It lulls the sobbing of my passions as
The mother-hand that soothes, with magic touch,
An infant's crying. I am glad to cry
Because it brings the healing of your voice.
But—Heaven help us! this we linger in,
This paradise of fools———
She—
Yet still a paradise———
Yet still a paradise———
