« ForrigeFortsett »
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her faceWhere thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A heart whose love is innocent.
MAID OF ATHENS,
Maid of Athens, ere we part,
By those tresses unconfined,
By that lip I long to taste ;
By all the token-flowers that tell
GOOD-NIGHT! I have to say good-night
The snowy hand detains me, then
But there will come a time, my love,
What, both these snowy hands! ah, then
T. B. ALDRICH.
IN A GONDOLA.
THE moth's kiss, first !
Kiss me as if you made believe
You were not sure, this eve,
Its petals up; so, here and there
You brush it, till I grow aware Who wants me, and wide ope I burst.
The bee's kiss, now !
Kiss me as if you entered gay
My heart at some noonday, A bud that dares not disallow
The claim, so all is rendered up,
And passively its shattered cup Over your head to sleep I bow.