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O LITTLE feet! that such long years
I, nearer to the wayside inn
O little hands! that, weak or strong,
Have still so long to give or ask;
Am weary, thinking of your task.
O little hearts! that throb and beat With such impatient, feverish heat, Such limitless and strong desires; Mine that so long has glowed i burned,
With passions into ashes turned Now covers and conceals its fires.
O little souls! as pure and white And crystalline as rays of light Direct from heaven, their source vine;
Refracted through the mist of years, How red my setting sun appears, How lurid looks this soul of mine!
FLIGHT THE THIRD.
O Sweet illusions of Song,
In the lonely fields, and the throng
I approach, and ye vanish away,
But ever by night and by day,
As the weary traveller sees
Blue lakes, overhung with trees,
Fair towns with turrets high,
That vanish as he draws nigh,
So I wander and wander along,
The shining city of song,
In the beautiful land of dreams.
But when I would enter the gate
It is gone, and I wander and wait
THE HAUNTED CHAMBER.
Each heart has its haunted chamber, Where the silent moonlight falls!
On the floor are mysterious footsteps, There are whispers along the walls
And mine at times is haunted
By phantoms of the Past, As motionless as shadows
By the silent moonlight cast.
A form sits by the window,
That is not seen by day,
It vanishes away.
It sits there in the moonlight,
Itself as pale and still,
Across the window-sill.
Without, before the window,
There stands a gloomy pine, Whose boughs wave upward and dow ward
As wave these thoughts of mine.
And underneath its branches
Who died upon life's threshold,
What are ye, O pallid phantoms!
That haunt my troubled brain? That vanish when day approaches,
And at night return again?