Poetry Archives

      Unfelt unheard, unseen,
      I’ve left my little queen,
Her languid arms in silver slumber lying:
      Ah! through their nestling touch,
      Who—who could tell how much
There is for madness—cruel, or complying?

      Those faery lids how sleek!
      Those lips how moist!—they speak,
In ripest quiet, shadows of sweet sounds:
      Into my fancy’s ear
      Melting a burden dear,
How “Love doth know no fulness, nor no bounds.”

      True!—tender monitors!
      I bend unto your laws:
This sweetest day for dalliance was born!
      So, without more ado,
      I’ll feel my heaven anew,
For all the blushing of the hasty morn.