  SING me the song again, and yet again Waken the music as it dies away; Make twilight sadder with it, nor refrain While yet these sighing winds bemoan the day. Still let that wavering voice Make my young heart rejoice, Even tho’ one truant tear adown my cheek may stray. Cease not thy singing, dearest, for mine eyes Feed on thy beauty, and I hear the song As one who, looking on the sunset skies, Hears over flowery meads the south winds blow, And down the purple hills the flashing waters flow. An idle song; I cannot tell the meaning, Yet, sing I o’er and o’er, for in its wings It bringeth heavenly things: Dear memories of melodious hours, When all earth’s weeds were flowers; Dear memories of the loved ones far away Whom yet we hope to greet some happy day; Dear memories of the travellers from Life’s shore, Whom we shall greet again, ah! nevermore. Cease, lady! Sing some song that brings again The golden past, meet for this sunset hour; Some breath of melody not fraught with pain, Some gayly-tinted flower! Let thy fair hand float o’er the willing keys, And all my sorrows ease. Home Journal, 1852. |
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