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I saw my mother's dying bed,
I heard her bless me, and I shed
Cool tears, but, lo! the ghastly dead
Stared me to madness, Rosaline!
And then, amid the silent night,
I screamed with horrible delight,
And in my brain an awful light love"
Did seem to crackle, Rosaline!
It is my curse! sweet memories fall
and only all
From me like snow,
Thine eyes are shut they never more
Thy voice I never more shall hear,
Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes,
Such pitying forgiveness lies,
Than hate more bitter, Rosaline ?
Woe 's me! I know that love so high
As thine, true soul, could never die,
And with mean clay in churchyard lie,
Would it might be so, Rosaline!
I WOULD more natures were like thine,
That never casts a glance before, Thou Hebe, who thy heart's bright wine
So lavishly to all dost pour, That we who drink forget to pine,
And can but dream of bliss in store.
Thou canst not see a shade in life;
With sunward instinct thou dost rise, And, leaving clouds below at strife,
Gazest undazzled at the skies, With all their blazing splendors rife,
A songful lark with eagle's eyes.
Thou wast some foundling whom the Hours Nursed, laughing, with the milk of Mirth; Some influence more gay than ours
Hath ruled thy nature from its birth,
As if thy natal-stars were flowers
That shook their seeds round thee on earth.
And thou, to lull thine infant rest,
Wast cradled like an Indian child;
With lullabies thine ears beguiled,
Thine every fancy seems to borrow
A sunlight from thy childish years, Making a golden cloud of sorrow,
A hope-lit rainbow out of tears,Thy heart is certain of to-morrow, Though 'yond to-day it never peers.