Within the letter's rustling fold I find, once more -- a glad surprise: A tiny little cup of gold -- Two lovely violet eyes; -- A cup of gold with emeralds set, Once filled with wine from happier spheres; Two little eyes so lately wet With spring's delicious dewy tears. Oh! little eyes that wept and laughed, Now bright with smiles, with tears now dim; Oh! little cup that once was quaffed By fay-queens fluttering round thy rim. I press each silken fringe's fold -- Sweet little eyes, once more ye shine; I kiss thy lip, oh! cup of gold, And find thee full of memory's wine. Within their violet depths I gaze, And see, as in the camera's gloom, The Island with its belt of bays, Its chieftained heights all capped with broom; Which, as the living lens it fills, Now seems a giant charmed to sleep -- Now a broad shield embossed with hills, Upon the bosom of the deep. There by the gentler mountain's slope -- That happiest year of many a year, That first swift year of love and hope -- With her then dear and ever dear, I sat upon the rustic seat -- The seat an aged bay-tree crowns -- And saw outspreading from our feet The golden glory of the Downs. The furze-crowned heights, the glorious glen, The white-walled chapel glistening near, The house of God, the homes of men, The fragrant hay, the ripening ear; There, where there seemed nor sin, nor crime, There in God's sweet and wholesome air -- Strange book to read at such a time -- We read of Vanity's false Fair. We read the painful pages through -- Perceiving the skill, admired the art, Felt them if true, not wholly true -- A truer truth was in our heart. Save fear and love of One, hath proved The sage, how vain is all below; And one was there who feared and loved, And one who loved that she was so. The vision spreads, the memories grow, Fair phantoms crowd the more I gaze. Oh! cup of gold, with wine o'erflow, I'll drink to those departed days: And when I drain the golden cup To them, to those, I ne'er can see, With wine of hope I'll fill it up, And drink to days that yet may be. I've drunk the future and the past, Now for a draught of warmer wine -- One draught the sweetest and the last -- Lady, I'll drink to thee and thine. These flowers that to my breast I fold, Into my very heart have grown -- To thee I drain the cup of gold, And think the violet eyes thine own. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AFTER THE RAIN by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE MOUSE'S PETITION TO DOCTOR PRIESTLY FOUND IN THE TRAP .. by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD THE BONNIE BLUE FLAG by ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM THE THREE FISHERS by CHARLES KINGSLEY LOUISA MAY ALCOTT by LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON THE BELLE OF THE BALL by WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED |