55
Thine is the mournful joy, that in the dawn
Of early love upon the spirit broods,
Till the young heart, grown timid as a fawn,
Seeks the still star-light and the shadowy woods.
Of early love upon the spirit broods,
Till the young heart, grown timid as a fawn,
Seeks the still star-light and the shadowy woods.
Yes, by the chastened light of those soft eyes,
That never swam in sorrowing tears before,
By the low breathing of those mournful sighs,
That, like a mist-wreath, cloud thy spirit o'er,
And by the color that doth come and go,
Making more lovely thy bewildering charms—
Maiden! ' t is love that fills thy breast of snow,
Heaving with tender fears and soft alarms.
That never swam in sorrowing tears before,
By the low breathing of those mournful sighs,
That, like a mist-wreath, cloud thy spirit o'er,
And by the color that doth come and go,
Making more lovely thy bewildering charms—
Maiden! ' t is love that fills thy breast of snow,
Heaving with tender fears and soft alarms.
My bosom trembles at the love intense,
Breathed eloquently from thine earnest eyes,
The love that is to thee a new-born sense,
Waking sweet thoughts and gentle sympathies;
O! for the sake of all thou wert, and art,
May Love's soft Eden-winds, that seem to kiss
The very foldings of thy love-toned heart,
Be but the prelude to some deeper bliss.
Breathed eloquently from thine earnest eyes,
The love that is to thee a new-born sense,
Waking sweet thoughts and gentle sympathies;
O! for the sake of all thou wert, and art,
May Love's soft Eden-winds, that seem to kiss
The very foldings of thy love-toned heart,
Be but the prelude to some deeper bliss.
