TO A PORTRAIT.
Reading edition
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BY MRS. H. MARION STEPHENS.
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’Tis so like life that I could gaze
For aye upon that face,
As pilgrim scans, with uplift soul,
His spirit-resting place.
The brow so calm and passionless—
The eye so purely bright—
As if its every glance was full
Of peace and holy light!
They haunt me wheresoe’er I turn,
Those lustrous eyes of thine,
Although their pleasant smile may rest
Oh never more on mine!
Ah weary—very weary ’tis
To look so long on thee,
To love, to worship, yet to know
Thy thoughts are far from me.
And yet I would not have thee mine;
My heart with such excess
Of joy would break beneath the spell
Of its own blissfulness!
Oh no, I do not crave thy love;
I only ask to be
A simple floweret in thy path
While thou art all to me!
Who would not weep should never love!
A term of weary years
Is love’s best boon to human hearts—
Its brightest guerdon—tears!
I would not have it cast for me
A shadow on thy heart,
Or cloud one single ray of thine,
All glorious as thou art!
No—rather let my spirit kneel
As to some distant star,
Whose light illumines my sad soul
From its bright home afar:
And while its beams may gladden those
More deeply—wildly blest,
One truant gleam may haply come
To lull my soul’s unrest!