O, beautiful hills that stand
Serene 'twixt earth and heaven, with the grace
Of both to make you grand,—
Your loveliness leaves place
For nothing fairer; fair
And complete beyond compare.
O, lovely purple hills, O, first day of November,
Be sure that I remember!
WAITING.
I cannot wean my wayward heart from waiting,
Though the steps watched for never come anear;
The wearying want clings to it unabating—
The fruitless wish for presences once dear.
No fairer eve e'er blessed a poet's vision;
No softer airs e'er kissed a fevered brow;
No scene more truly could be called Elysian,
Than this which holds my gaze enchanted now.
And yet I pine;—this beautiful completeness
Is incomplete, to my desiring heart;
'Tis Beauty's form, without her soul of sweetness—
The pure, but chiseled loveliness of art.
There is no longer pleasure in emotion.
I envy those dead souls no touch can thrill;
Who—"painted ships upon a painted ocean,"—
Seem to be moved, yet are forever still.
Where are they fled?—they whose delightful voices,
Whose very footsteps had a charmed fall:
No more, no more their sound my heart rejoices:
Change, death, and distance part me now from all.
