"Nay, mark not that the varying tide of thought
Hath taken, for once, more than its usual glow
Of ever-burning sadness: it is naught;
Then do not pain thy breast with thoughts of woe.
True, my cheek burns, but with mere earnestness,
The force of feelings in my heart untold—
Thoughts which I cherish not, nor can repress,
Not of wild sorrow, nor yet calmly cold."
"Ah, sister! is this all? Thou canst not hide
The secret sadness wearing life away;
The bitterness that in thy heart doth hide,
Dwelling in its still depths by night and day.
I tell thee I have heard thee in thy sleep
Murmuring strange, mournful words, that ever seem
So low and yet so wild, they make me weep
To think thy heart is breaking in thy dream."
"Do I then murmur in my sleep to thee,
Betraying the sad fancies in my brain?
'Sleep hath its own world'—reality
Thou shouldst not link with its unreal pain.
Sybil, dear sister, lay thy cheek to mine—
Talking of grief has even made me sad;
Whisper of love—no other love but thine!
And talk to me as though you deemed me glad."
"Ah, my own Miriam! has no other love
No whisper—no unutterable thrill—
Has thy warm heart, o'er-freighted like the dove,
With riches of affection, now grown still?
Surely the past, the bright, the lovely past,
Hath dreamy tales of love, and life, and bliss;
You do not deem such joys too bright to last—
Think of those hours and they will brighten this."
"Talk not of love! there's that within my heart
Whereon it falls as living fire would fall
