Often at her feet I'm sitting,
With my head upon her knee,
While she tells me dreams of beauty
In low words of melody;
And when my unskillful fingers
Strive her silvery lyre to wake,
She will smooth my tresses, smiling
At the discord which I make.
But of late days I have missed her—
The bright being of my love—
And perchance she's stolen pinions,
And has floated up above.
Tell me—have you ever met her—
Met the spirit of my song—
Have her wave-like footsteps glided
Through the city's worldly throng?
THE DREAMER.
A dreamer rose from her quiet sleep
To look out upon the night,
And the light that fell from the shining sky
Ne'er fell on a maid more bright:
For the youthful form in those robes of snow
Was full of a breathing grace,
And fashioned in perfect loveliness
Was the beauty of her face.
In the rosy palm of her dimpled hand
One red cheek nestling lay,
And smiles stole out from her coral lips
With that lily hand to play;
