I cannot wean my wayward heart from waiting, Though the steps watched for never come anear; The wearying want clings to it unabating — The fruitless wish for presences once dear.
No fairer eve e'er blessed a poet's vision; No softer airs e'er kissed a fevered brow; No scene more truly could be called Elysian, Than this which holds my gaze enchanted now.
And yet I pine;— this beautiful completeness Is incomplete, to my desiring heart; ‘ Tis Beauty's form, without her soul of sweetness — The pure, but chiseled loveliness of art.
There is no longer pleasure in emotion. I envy those dead souls no touch can thrill; Who — “painted ships upon a painted ocean,” — Seem to be moved, yet are forever still.
Where are they fled?— they whose delightful voices, Whose very footsteps had a charmed fall: No more, no more their sound my heart rejoices: Change, death, and distance part me now from all.
And this fair evening, with remembrance teeming, Pierces my soul with every sharp regret; The sweetest beauty saddens to my seeming, Since all that's fair forbids me to forget.
Eyes that have gazed upon yon silver crescent, ‘ Till filled with light, then turned to gaze in mine, Lips that could clothe a fancy evanescent, In words whose magic thrilled the brain like wine:
Hands that have wreathed June's roses in my tresses, And gathered violets to deck my breast, Where are ye now? I miss your dear caresses — I miss the lips, the eyes, that made me blest.
Lonely I sit and watch the fitful burning Of prairie fires, far off, through gathering gloom; While the young moon, and one bright star returning Down the blue solitude, leave Night their room.
Gone is the glimmer of the silent river; Hushed is the wind that sped the leaves to-day; Alone through silence falls the crystal shiver Of the sweet starlight, on its earthward way.
And yet I wait, how vainly! for a token — A sigh, a touch, a whisper from the past; Alas, I listen for a word unspoken, And wail for arms that have embraced their last.
I wish no more, as once I wished, each feeling To grow immortal in my happy breast; Since not to feel will leave no wounds for healing — The pulse that thrills not has no need of rest.
As the conviction sinks into my spirit That my quick heart is doomed to death in life; Or that these pangs must pierce and never sear it, I am abandoned to despairing strife.
To the lost life, alas! no more returning — In this to come no semblance of the past — Only to wait!— hoping this ceaseless yearning May,‘ ere long, end — and rest may come at last.
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