I see them with their still and reverent faces,
Come out to watch the earth in its fair sleep—
And bless them, smiling in their shining places,
For the calm guard that pleasantly they keep.
We used to sit and watch the shining heaven,
While locust-blossoms tossed upon the breeze—
We used to muse upon the "Pleiad seven,"
And whisper thrilling words on nights like these!
The stars are here; the sounds to which I listen
Are those that used to be to us so dear—
The roses sigh—the wet leaves wave and glisten—
All have come back!—but thou—thou art not here!
THE POET'S COMPLAINT.
Out upon these flowing lines,
And these words of dainty fashion,
When my chained heart pants and pines.
And my soul consumes with passion!
Shall I make a low complaint,
In words soft as flowers shutting?
Sure my madness is not faint,
And my thoughts like knives are cutting!
Oh ! my grief is nothing kind—
Nothing pitiful or tender,
To be moved from out my mind
By the evening's solemn splendor!
In the restlessness of fear
I can see but phantoms only,
And I cry out sharp and clear,
"I am lonely—I am lonely!"
