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If I could dwell
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
A mortal melody, While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky.
FOR ANNIE. THANK Heaven! the crisis,
The danger, is past,
Is over at last-
Is conquered at last.
I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move
As I lie at full lengthBut no matter!—I feel
I am better at length. And I rest so composedly,
Now, in my bed, That any beholder
Might fancy me dead-
Thinking me dead.
The sighing and sobbing,
With that horrible throbbing
Horrible throbbing !
The pitiless pain-
That maddened my brainWith the fever called " Living”
That burned in my brain.
And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Torture of thirst
Of Passion accurst:-
That quenches all thirst:
Of a water that flows
With a lullaby sound
Feet under ground-
Down under ground.
And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
And narrow my bed;
In a different bedAnd, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes, Forgetting or never
Regretting its roses Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:
For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies A holier odour
About it of pansies
A rosemary odour
Commingled with pansies-With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies. And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.
She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed, And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breastDeeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.
When the light was extinguished
She covered me warm, And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harmTo the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly,
bed (Knowing her love)
That you fancy me deadAnd I rest so contentedly,
Now, in my bed (With her love at my breast)
That you fancy me deadThat you
shudder to look at me, Thinking me dead.
But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie--
TO ONE IN PARADISE.
Thou wast all that to me, love,
For which my soul did pineА green
isle in the sea, love, A fountain, and a shrine All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.
Ah dream too bright to last !
Ah starry hope that didst arise
A voice from out the future cries,
The light of life is o'er !
No more—no more—no more
To the sands upon the shore)
Or the stricken eagle soar !
And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams Are where thy dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleamsIn what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams !
THE SLEEPER. At midnight, in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon. An opiate vapour, dewy, dirn, Exhales from out her golden rim, And, softly dripping, drop by drop, Upon the quiet mountain-top, Steals drowsily and musically Into the universal valley. The rosemary nods upon the grave; The lily lolls upon the wave; Wrapping the fog about his breast, The ruin rnoulders into rest; Looking like Lethe, see! the lake A conscious slumber seems to take, And would not, for the world, awake. All Beauty sleeps !and lo! where lies, Her casement open to the skies, Irene, with her destinies ! Oh lady bright ! can it be rightThis window open to the night? The wanton airs, from the tree-top, Laughingly through the lattice dropThe bodiless airs, a wizard rout, Flit through thy chamber in and out; And wave the curtain canopy So fitfully—so fearfullyAbove the closed and fringèd lid ’Neath which thy slumbering soul lies hid That o'er the floor and down the wall Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall! Oh lady dear, hast thou no fear Why and what art thou dreaming here? Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas, A wonder to these garden-trees ! Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress! Strange, above all, thy length of tress, And this all solemn silentness ! The lady sleeps! Oh may her sleep,