Poetry Archives

The melody of birds is in her voice.
  The lake is not more crystal than her eyes,
  In whose brown depths her soul still sleeping lies.
With her soft curls the passionate zephyr toys,
And whispers in her ear of coming joys.
  Upon her breast red rosebuds fall and rise,
  Kissing her snowy throat, and, lover-wise,
Breathing forth sweetness till the fragrance cloys.

Sometimes she thinks of love, but, oftener yet,
  Wooing but wearies her, and love’s warm phrase
    Repels and frightens her. Then, like the sun
At misty dawn, amid the fear and fret
    There rises in her heart at last some One,
  And all save love is banished by his rays.