  The day, the bitter day, divides us, sweet— Tears from our souls the wings with which we soar To Heaven. All things are cruel. We may meet Only by stealth, to sigh—and all is o'er: We part—the world is dark again, and fleet; The phantoms of despair and doubt once more Pursue our hearts and look into our eyes, Till Memory grows dismayed, and sweet Hope dies. But the still night, with all its fiery stars, And sleep, within her world of dreams apart— These, these are ours! Then no rude tumult mars Thy image in the fountain of my heart— Then the faint soul her prison-gate unbars And springs to life and thee, no more to part, Till cruel day our rapture disenchants, And stills with waking each fond bosom's pants. M. E. T.
|
|
