O serene, O silent, O pure!

[18]

[18]

14

By the verge of the woodland,

Where purling brooks loosen their brown tresses,

Where the music of the breeze

Is played on viols of the vines and trees,

Thy soft words I hear

Like songs from enchantment's strings.

Ah, vanishing moments of ecstacy!

Far-fleeing only to be nearer to my soul,

Rest, rest awhile on the hillside of my echoing!

Pour on it the sweet rain of thy words' melody

Till they mingle and drown my tears

Into thy kisses' passion-swept sea.

[19]

[19]

15

THE DREAM OF HIS SOUL

 Prev. P 20/82 next