His lofty step, His bearing high, The smile of his lip, The power of his eye,His witching words, Their tones of bliss, His hand's fond pressure And ah -his kiss! My peace is gone, My heart is sore, I find it never, And nevermore.My bosom aches To feel him near; Ah, could I clasp And fold him here!Kiss him and kiss him Again would I, And on his kisses I fain would die.Martha's Garden
How blest, in whom the fond desire From error's sea to rise, hope stillrenews! What a man knows not, that he doth require, And what he knoweth,that he cannot use. But let not moody thoughts their shadow throw O'er thecalm beauty of this hour serene! In the rich sunset see how brightly glow Yoncottage homes, girt round with verdant green! Slow sinks the orb, the day innow no more; Yonder he hastens to diffuse new life. Oh for a pinion from theearth to soar, And after, ever after him to strive! Then should I see the worldbelow, Bathed in the deathless evening - beams, The vales reposing, everyheight a - glow, The silver brooklets meeting golden streams. The savagemountain, with its cavern'd side, Bars not my godlike progress. Lo, the ocean,Its warm bays heaving with a tranquil motion, To my rapt vision opes itsample tide! But now at length the god appears to sink; A new - born impulsewings my flight, Onward I press, his quenchless light to drink, The day beforeme, and behind the night, The pathless waves beneath, and over me the skies.Fair dream, it vanish'd with the parting day! Alas! that when on spirit - wingwe rise, No wing material lifts our mortal clay. But 'tis our inborn impulse,deep and strong, Upwards and onwards still to urge our flight, When farabove us pours its thrilling song The sky - lark, lost in azure light, When onextended wing amain O'er pine - crown'd height the eagle soars, And overmoor and lake, the crane Still striveth towards its native shores.Wagner
Quick! quick! below I see her there.
A worthy object still pursue! Be not a hollow tinkling fool! Soundunderstanding, judgment true, Find utterance without art or rule; And when inearnest you are moved to speak, Then is it needful cunning words to seek?Your fine harangues, so polish'd in their kind, Wherein the shreds of humanthought ye twist, Are unrefreshing as the empty wind, Whistling throughwither'd leaves and autumn mist!
They have flown up there. The wanton butterflies!Martha
Fie on you!