Day, in melting purple dying; Blossoms, all around me sighing; Fragrance, from the lilies straying; Zephyr, with my ringlets playing; Ye but waken my distress; I am sick of loneliness! Thou, to whom I love to hearken, Come, ere night around me darken; Though thy softness but deceive me, Say thou ’rt true, and I ’ll believe thee; Veil, if ill, thy soul’s intent, Let me think it innocent! Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure; All I ask is friendship’s pleasure; Let the shining ore lie darkling,— Bring no gem in lustre sparkling; Gifts and gold are naught to me, I would only look on thee! Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling, Ecstasy but in revealing; Paint to thee the deep sensation, Rapture in participation; Yet but torture, if comprest In a lone, unfriended breast. Absent still! Ah! come and bless me! Let these eyes again caress thee. Once in caution, I could fly thee; Now, I nothing could deny thee. In a look if death there be, Come, and I will gaze on thee!
Song of Egla
More from Poet
-
Day, in melting purple dying; Blossoms, all around me sighing; Fragrance, from the lilies straying; Zephyr, with my ringlets playing; Ye but waken my distress; I am sick of loneliness! Thou, to whom I love to hearken, Come, ere night around me darken; Though thy softness but deceive...
-
Adieu, fair isle! I love thy bowers, I love thy dark-eyed daughters there; The cool pomegranate’s scarlet flowers Look brighter in their jetty hair. They praised my forehead’s stainless white; And when I thirsted, gave a draught From the full clustering cocoa’s height, And smiling,...
-
Day in melting purple dying, Blossoms all around me sighing, Fragrance from the lilies straying, Zephyr with my ringlets playing, Ye but waken my distress: I am sick of loneliness. Thou to whom I love to hearken, Come ere night around me darken: Though thy softness but deceive me, Say...
-
The banquet-cups, of many a hue and shape, Bossed o’er with gems, were beautiful to view; But, for the madness of the vaunted grape, Their only draught was a pure limpid dew, To Spirits sweet; but these half-mortal lips Longed for the streams that once on earth they quaffed; And, half in...
-
High towered the palace and its massive pile, Made dubious if of nature or of art, So wild and so uncouth; yet, all the while, Shaped to strange grace in every varying part. And groves adorned it, green in hue, and bright As icicles about a laurel-tree; And danced about their twigs a...