Hear I the creaking gate unclose?
The gleaming latch uplifted?
No-twas the wind
that, whirring, rose,
Amidst the poplars drifted!
Adorn thyself, thou green leaf-bowering
roof,
Destined the bright ones
presence to receive,
For her, a shadowy palace-hall aloof
With holy night, thy boughs
familiar weave.
And ye sweet flatteries of
the delicate air,
Awake and sport her rosy cheek
around,
When their light weight the tender
feet shall bear,
When beauty comes to passions
trysting-ground.
Hush! what amidst the copses crept-
So swiftly by me now?
No-twas the startled bird
that swept
The light leaves of the bough!
Day, quench thy torch! come, ghostlike,
from on high,
With thy loved silence, come,
thou haunting Eve,
Broaden below thy web of purple
dye,
Which lulled boughs mysterious
round us weave.
For loves delight, enduring
listeners none,
The froward witness of the
light will flee;
Hesper alone, the rosy silent one,
Down-glancing may our sweet
familiar be!
What murmur in the distance spoke,
And like a whisper died?
No-twas the swan
that gently broke
In rings the silver tide!
Soft to my ear there comes a music-flow;
In gleesome murmur glides
the waterfall;
To zephyrs kiss the flowers
are bending low;
Through life goes joy, exchanging
joy with all.
Tempt to the touch the grapes-the
blushing fruit,
Voluptuous swelling from the
leaves that bide;
And, drinking fever from my cheek,
the mute
Air sleeps all liquid in the
odor-tide!
Hark! through the alley hear I now
A footfall? Comes the
maiden?
No,-twas the fruit
slid from the bough,
With its own richness laden!
Days lustrous eyes grow heavy
in sweet death,
And pale and paler wane his
jocund hues,
The flowers too gentle for his glowing
breath,
Ope their frank beauty to
the twilight dews.
The bright face of the moon is still
and lone,
Melts in vast masses the world
silently;
Slides from each charm the slowly-loosening
zone;
And round all beauty, veilless,
roves the eye.
What yonder seems to glimmer?
Her white robes glancing
hues?
No,-twas the columns
shimmer
Athwart the darksome yews!
O, longing heart, no more delight-upbuoyed
Let the sweet airy image thee
befool!
The arms that would embrace her
clasp the void
This feverish breast no phantom-bliss
can cool,
O, waft her here, the true, the
living one!
Let but my hand her hand,
the tender, feel-
The very shadow of her robe alone!-
So into life the idle dream
shall steal!
As glide from heaven, when least
we ween,
The rosy hours of bliss,
All gently came the maid, unseen:-
He waked beneath her kiss!
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