SWEET is the evening twilight; but, alas! There's sadness in it: day's light tasks are done, And leisure sighs to think how soon must pass Those tints that melt o'er heaven, O setting sun, And look like heaven dissolved. A tender flush Of blended rose and purple light, o'er all The luscious landscape spreads like pleasure's blush, And glows o'er wave, sky, flower, cottage, and palm-tree tall. 'Tis now that solitude has most of pain; Vague apprehensions of approaching night Whisper the soul, attuned to bliss, and fain To find in love equivalent for light. The bard has sung, God never formed a soul Without its own peculiar mate, to meet Its wandering half, when ripe to crown the whole Bright plan of bliss, most heavenly, most complete! But thousand evil things there are that hate To look on happiness; these hurt, impede; And leagued with time, space, circumstance, and fate, Keep kindred heart from heart to pine, and pant, and bleed. And, as the dove to far Palmyra flying From where her native founts of Antioch beam, Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, sighing, Lights sadly at the desert's bitter stream, -- So many a soul o'er life's drear desert faring, Love's pure congenial spring unfound, -- unquaff'd -- Suffers -- recoils -- then, thirsty and despairing Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught. 'Tis twilight in fair Egla's grove, her eye Is sad and wistful; while the hues that glint In soft procession o'er the molten sky, O'er all her beauty spread a mellower tint. And formed, in every fibre, for such love As heaven not yet had given her to share, Through the deep shadowy vistas of her grove Sent looks of wistfulness; so Spirit there Appears as wont; for many a month so long He had not left her; what could so detain? She took her lute and turned it for a song, The while spontaneous words accord them to a strain. Taught by enamoured Zophiel; softly heaving The while her heart, thus from its inmost core Such feelings gush'd, to Lydian numbers weaving, As never had her lip express'd before. Song 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! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHEN THE GREAT GRAY SHIPS COME IN [AUGUST 20, 1898] by GUY WETMORE CARRYL CHANSON INNOCENTE: 2 by EDWARD ESTLIN CUMMINGS AT CASTERBRIDGE FAIR: 2. FORMER BEAUTIES by THOMAS HARDY MY AIN WIFE by ALEXANDER LAING LATE LEAVES by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR THE MENAGERIE by WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY ODES: BOOK 1: ODE 12. TO SIR FRANCIS HENRY DRAKE, BARONET by MARK AKENSIDE |