Of draining the dear dream-cup thou hast given
Is unto me,--and thoughts which long have striven
With joyousness, flit far away the while
My lips are prest to it. By the fire-light,
Or in full gaze of sun-set, when the choirs
Of winged minstrels, waking out of light,
Ring requiem meet to those departing fires--
Let me be with thee then--forgetting quite
The world, its scornfulness, and its desires.


O! I could weep for thee! and yet not tears
Of hopelessness, but triumph, and sit down
And weave for thee wet wild-flowers for a crown--
Then up, and sound rich music in thine ears;
And teach thee, that sweet lips, in coming years,
Shall lisp the songs which cold dull hearts disown,--
That all which hope could pant for is thine own,--
Dimmed, for a moment's space, with human fears.
Then watch the new-born glories in thine eye,
Glancing like lightning from its chariot cloud,
And list these words, which know not how to die,--
Joy's inspiration gushing forth aloud:
Then back again unto the world and sigh,
And wrap my heart up in a dusky shroud.

THOMAS M---- S.

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