Poems (E. L. F.)/A love-letter

by E. L. F.

A LOVE-LETTER

I doat on all the whispered tones
 That tell my heart of thee,
And everything that bears a trace
 Of what thou art to me:
Dearer than aught this earth could give,
For thee I'd die—for thee I live.

There's not a flower that e'er I knew
 Was lovely in thy sight,
And not a star that ever shone
 Beneath the shades of night,
But I would love and cherish ever,
That heart and soul might live together.

There's not a look, or tone of thine,
 Untreasured in my heart;
Thy smiles and blushes, too, are mine—
 Of memory a part.
Oh! think not there could ever be
A thought of mine unshared by thee.

The deep emotions of that soul,
 Flushing the tell-tale cheek
With thoughts of high and holy things,
 That words were faint to speak.
Oh! I could gaze each hour away,
Reading thy features' speaking play.

Or I would hush, in gentle calm,
 Thy mind with words of song,
Whose tones could wake the melody
 Of worshipped days now gone;
And I would be in soul with thee,
Amid that speaking melody.

Oh! say not that thou canst not love,
 Thy heart is passion'é own,
That only wants one gentle touch
 To thrill from tone to tone.
Oh! could I, dare I, touch that chord,
Thou wert my own, in deed and word.

It is because thou art apart,
 A being wrapt and lone,
All differing from those around,
 I'd make thee all mine own.
And thou art fair, and good, and true,
With something more, than all I knew.

Thou art not of the giddy throng,
 Who laugh each hour away,
As if the heart could never know
 A shadow of decay.
And yet thy smile is pure and bright—
Something of mirth, yet more of light.

In heart and soul thou art above
 The many round thee met;
And yet how few could ever tell
 What I can ne'er forget.
That mind may speak through beauty's eye,
Though lip may not the look belie.

Oh! tell me, idol of my soul,
 If this fond prayer of mine,
Concent'ring all my hopes in life,
 Is still unheard in thine?
For I would rather die than live,
To leave the hopes thy words can give.