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HER IMAGE haunts me. Lo! I muse at even, And straight it gathers from the gloom to make My soul its mirror, which (as some deep lake Impictures the cerulean smiles of heaven) Through the hushed night retains it, when ’tis given To take a warmer presence and incline A glowing cheek all blushfully to mine, Saying, “The heart for which thou long hast striven With pale looks, fancy pale, I grant thee now, And if for pity, yet more for Love’s sweet sake, My lips shall seal this promise on thy brow.” Thus blest in sleep, who would not weep to wake When the cold truth from his belief must shake Such vows, like blossoms from a shatter’d bough? |