Though cribbed and gyved, thou canst within thy
Unfold a wondrous wealth of worlds unseen,
And flood the soul’s abyss with moon-light sheen,
As well as darken passions’ gilded halls ;
Thy fourteen outlets are so many falls
From which gush out the prisoned joy, or
The silvery cascades, or the billows green,
And either a sea of bliss or grief recalls.
Thou goddess of the gems of Fancy’s deep,
Though few thy facets, they reflect the whole
Of inner-self in multi-shaded hues ;
Thou art the couch of dreams that never sleep ;
Thou art the phoenix of the poet’s soul,
As well the crystal palace of his muse.
Her First Sorrow
’T is but a score of hours when he didst swear
My sorrow and my joy to share.
Despite the fates, fore’er ;
But now he’s gone to cash again his lie ;
Others his shame with me will wear,
Why should I die?
Last night his lips my very feet didst burn ;
His kisses dropt, my love to earn,
Whichever way he’d turn ;
But now he’s gone another soul to rob,
Another heart to lure and spurn,
Why should I sob?
He did not kiss me when he said good-bye ;
I let him go, not asking why,
Nor do I for him sigh ;
He’s gone another virgin breast to tear.
He’s gone on other lips to die,
Why should I care?