Poetry Archives

             I dwelt alone
             In a world of moan,
         And my soul was a stagnant tide,
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride—
Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.
             Ah, less—less bright
             The stars of the night
         Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
             And never a flake
             That the vapor can make
         With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
Can vie with the modest Eulalie’s most unregarded curl—
Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie’s most humble and careless
  curl.
             Now Doubt—now Pain
             Come never again,
         For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
             And all day long
             Shines, bright and strong,
         Astarte within the sky,
While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye—
While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.