The _Summer_ lightning comes and goes In one pale cloud above the hill, As if within its soft repose A burning heart were never still-- As in my bosom pulses beat Before the coming of his feet.
All drugged with odorous sleep, the rose Breathes dewy balm about the place, As if the dreams the garden knows Took immaterial form and face-- As in my heart sweet thoughts arise Beneath the ardour of his eyes.
The moon above the darkness shows An orb of silvery snow and fire, As if the night would now disclose To heav'n her one divine desire-- As in the rapture of his kiss All of my soul is drawn to his.
The cloud, it knows not that it glows; The rose knows nothing of its scent; Nor knows the moon that it bestows Light on our earth and firmament-- So is the soul unconscious of The beauties it reveals through LOVE.
What is there left for us to say, Now it has come to say good-by? And all our dreams of yesterday Have vanished in the sunset sky-- What is there left for us to say, Now different ways before us lie?
A word of hope, a word of cheer, A word of love, that still shall last, When we are far to bring us near Through memories of the happy past; A word of hope, a word of cheer, To keep our sad hearts true and fast.
What is there left for us to do, Now it has come to say farewell? And care, that bade us once adieu, Returns again with us to dwell-- What is there left for us to do, Now different ways our fates compel?
Clasp hands and sigh, touch lips and smile, And look the love that shall remain-- When severed so by many a mile-- The sweetest balm for bitterest pain; Clasp hands and sigh, touch lips and smile, And trust in GOD to meet again.
I look upon my lady's face, And, in the world about me, see No face like hers in any place: _Therefore it is I sing her praise._
It is not made, as others sing Of their dear loves, like ivory, But like a wild rose in the spring: _Therefore it is I sing her praise._
Her brow is low and very fair, And o'er it, smooth and shadowy, Lies deep the darkness of her hair: _Therefore it is I sing her praise._
Beneath her brows her eyes are gray, And gaze out glad and fearlessly, Their wonder haunts me night and day: _Therefore it is I sing her praise._
Her eyebrows, arched and delicate, Twin curves of pencilled ebony, Within their spans contain my fate: _Therefore it is I sing her praise._