WEARINESS. O LITTLE feet! that such long years I, nearer to the wayside inn Am weary, thinking of your road! O little hands! that, weak or strong, Have still so long to give or ask; O little hearts! that throb and beat Such limitless and strong desires; Mine that so long has glowed ar burned, With passions into ashes turned Now covers and conceals its fires. O little souls! as pure and white Direct from heaven, their source d Refracted through the mist of years, How lurid looks this soul of mine! FLIGHT THE THIRD. FATA MORGANA. O SWEET illusions of Song, That tempt me everywhere, I approach, and ye vanish away, The melody soundeth on. As the weary traveller sees In desert or prairie vast, And shining roofs of gold, So I wander and wander along, In the beautiful land of dreams. But when I would enter the gate Of that golden atmosphere, It is gone, and I wander and wait For the vision to reappear. 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, For as soon as the dawn approaches It vanishes away. It sits there in the moonlight, Itself as pale and still, And points with its airy finger Across the window-sill. Without, before the window, As wave these thoughts of mine. And underneath its branches Is the grave of a little child, Who died upon life's threshold, And never wept nor smiled. What are ye, O pallid phantoms! That haunt my troubled brain? That vanish when day approaches, And at night return again? |