Would so haunt mine after death,
Or that she could hear my sighs,
Low as the harp-string's breath.

But, ah, last night we met!
From our stilly trance we rose,
Thrilled with all the old regret--
The grieving that God knows.

She asked: "Am I forgiven?"--
"And dost thou forgive?" I said,
Ah! how long for joy we'd striven!
But now our hearts were dead.

Alas, for the lips I kissed
And the sweet hope, long ago!
On her grave chill hangs the mist;
On mine, white lies the snow.


VI

_Hearkening still, I hear this strain
From the ninth opal's varied vein:_


NINTH OPAL

In the mountains of Mexico,
Where the barren volcanoes throw