ONE o'clock! and still I ponder On the joys of yesterday; Never lover weaker, fonder, Sighed the weary hours away. Ill-content with saying, singing, All its worship o'er and o'er; Still the heart would fain be clinging Round its idol, evermore! Half in pleasure, half in sorrow, Thinking o'er each fervent kiss, Still I vainly strive to borrow From the Past its buried bliss. Now I hear her fondly sighing, As when late we sat alone, While the dancer's feet were flying, -- Ah! the sigh is but my own! "Thus my darling I would smother!" In my dreaming oft I say. Foolish lips, that kiss each other! Hers, alas! are far away. On my cheek I feel the billow Of her glowing bosom beat, -- Ah! 't is but the pulseless pillow! Shall I curse or bless the cheat? Dreaming, waking, I am weary. Would that morning might appear! Oh, 't is dreary, very dreary, Thus to love, and not be near! |