Like a poor ghost the night I seek; Its hollow winds repeat my sighs; The cold dews mingle on my cheek With tears that wander from mine eyes. The thorns that still my couch molest, Have robb'd these heavy eyes of sleep; But tho' deprived of tranquil rest, I here at least am free to weep. Twelve times the moon, that rises red O'er yon tall wood of shadowy pine, Has fill'd her orb, since low was laid My Harriet! that sweet form of thine! While each sad month, as slow it past, Brought some new sorrow to deplore; Some grief more poignant than the last, But thou canst calm those griefs no more. No more thy friendship soothes to rest This wearied spirit tempest-tost; The cares that weigh upon my breast Are doubly felt since thou art lost. Bright visions of ideal grace That the young poet's dreams inflame, Were not more lovely than thy face; Were not more perfect than thy frame. Wit, that no sufferings could impair, Was thine, and thine those mental powers Of force to chase the fiends that tear From Fancy's hands her budding flowers. O'er what, my angel friend, thou wert, Dejected Memory loves to mourn; Regretting still that tender heart, Now withering in a distant urn! But ere that wood of shadowy pine Twelve times shall yon full orb behold, This sickening heart, that bleeds for thine, My Harriet! -- may like thine be cold! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FANCY IN NUBIBUS; OR, THE POET IN THE CLOUDS by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE INVITATION TO LOVE by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK AT ... THEATRE ROYALE, 1747 by SAMUEL JOHNSON (1709-1784) SONNET: 10 by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY TO A LADY TO ANSWER DIRECTLY WITH YEA OR NAY by THOMAS WYATT BLIND by LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE THE PASSERS BY by AL-RADI BILLAH |