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Like sweet thoughts in a dream ;
O lift me from the grass !
A BRIDAL SONG.
THE golden gates of sleep unbar
Where strength and beauty, met together, Kindle their image like a star
In a sea of glassy weather!
Darkness, weep thy holiest dew,-
On a pair so true.
Fairies, sprites, and angels, keep her!
Holy stars, permit no wrong!
Dawn,-ere it be long.
WHEN passion's trance is overpast,
It were enough to feel, to see
After the slumber of the year
GOOD-NIGHT? ah! no; the hour is ill
Which severs those it should unite ; Let us remain together still,
Then it will be good night.
How can I call the lone night good,
Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight? Be it not said, thought, understood,
That it will be good night.
To hearts which near each other move
From evening close to morning light, The night is good; because, my love,
They never say good-night.
I PANT for the music which is divine,
My heart in its thirst is a dying flower ; Pour forth the sound like enchanted wine,
Loosen the notes in a silver shower; Like a herbless plain for the gentle rain, I gasp, I faint, till they wake again.
Let me drink of the spirit of that sweet sound,
More, O more !-I am thirsting yet,
It loosens the serpent which care has bound
Upon my heart, to stifle it;
As the scent of a violet withered up,
Which grew by the brink of a silver lake, When the hot noon has drained its dewy cup,
And mist there was none its thirst to slakeAnd the violet lay dead while the odour flew On the wings of the wind o'er the waters blue
As one who drinks from a charmed
cup Of foaming, and sparkling, and murmuring wine, Whom, a mighty Enchantress filling up,
Invites to love with her kiss divine.
DIRGE FOR THE YEAR.
ORPHAN hours, the year is dead,
Come and sigh, come and weep!
For the year is but asleep :
As an earthquake rocks a corse
In its coffin in the clay,
Rocks the dead-cold year to-day ;
mother in her shroud.
As the wild air stirs and sways
The tree-swung cradle of a child,
Rocks the year:be calm and mild,
January gray is here,
Like a sexton by her grave;
March with grief doth howl and rave,
They were two cousins, almost like two twins,