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’TWAS late, and the gay company was gone, And the light lay soft on the deserted room From alabaster vases, and a scent Of orange leaves, and sweet verbena came Through the unshutter’d window on the air, And the rich pictures with their dark old tints Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things Seem’d hush’d into a slumber. Isabel, The dark-eyed, spiritual Isabel Was leaning on her harp, and I had stay’d To whisper what I could not when the crowd Hung on her look like worshippers. I knelt, And with the fervor of a lip unused To the cool breath of reason, told my love. There was no answer, and I took the hand That rested on the strings, and press’d a kiss Upon it unforbidden—and again Besought her, that this silent evidence That I was not indifferent to her heart, Might have the seal of one sweet syllable. I kiss’d the small white fingers as I spoke, And she withdrew them gently, and upraised Her forehead from its resting place, and look’d Earnestly on me—She had been asleep! |