“o pour upon my soul again That sad, unearthly strain, That seems from other worlds to plain; Thus falling, falling from afar, As if some melancholy star Had mingled with her light her sighs, And dropped them from the skies! “No,—never came from aught below This melody of woe, That makes my heart to overflow, As from a thousand gushing springs Unknown before; that with it brings This nameless light,—if light it be,— That veils the world I see. “For all I see around me wears The hue of other spheres; And something blent of smiles and tears Comes from the very air I breathe. O, nothing, sure, the stars beneath Can mould a sadness like to this,— So like angelic bliss.” So, at that dreamy hour of day, When the last lingering ray Stops on the highest cloud to play,— So thought the gentle Rosalie, As on her maiden reverie First fell the strain of him who stole In music to her soul.
Rosalie
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