IV. ON THE RHINE.
Vain is the effort to forget.
Some day I shall be cold, I know,
As is the eternal moon-lit snow
Of the high Alps, to which I go;
But ah! not yet, not yet!
Vain is the agony of grief.
'Tis true, indeed, an iron knot
Ties straitly up from mine thy lot;
And, were it snapped—thou lov'st me not!
But is despair relief?
A while let me with thought have done.
And as this brimmed unwrinkled Rhine,
And that far purple mountain line,
Lie sweetly in the look divine
Of the slow-sinking sun;
So let me lie, and, calm as they,
Let beam upon my inward view
Those eyes of deep, soft, lucent hue,—
Eyes too expressive to be blue,
Too lovely to be gray.
Ah, quiet, all things feel thy balm!
Those blue hills too, this river's flow,
Were restless once, but long ago.
Tamed is their turbulent youthful glow;
Their joy is in their calm.
V. LONGING.
Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
