LINES.
Reading edition
———
BY SARAH HELEN WHITMAN.
———
“The undying voice of that dead time,
With its interminable chime,
Rings on my spirit like a knell.”
Dost thou remember that September day
When by the Seekonk’s lonely wave we stood,
And marked the languor of repose that lay,
Softer than sleep, on valley, wave and wood?
A trance of solemn rapture seemed to lull
The charméd earth and circumambient air,
And the low murmur of the leaves seemed full
Of a resigned and passionless despair.
Though the warm breath of summer lingered still
In the lone paths where late her footsteps passed,
The pallid star-flowers on the purple hill
Sighed dreamily “we are the last! the last!”
I stood beside thee, and a dream of heaven
Around me like a golden halo fell!
Then the bright veil of phantasy was riven,
And my lips murmured “fare thee well!—farewell!”
I dared not listen to thy words, nor turn
To meet the pleading language of thine eyes,
I only felt their power, and in the urn
Of memory treasured their sweet rhapsodies.
We parted then forever—and the hours
Of that bright day were gathered to the past—
But through long wintry nights I heard the flowers
Sigh dreamily, we are the last!—the last!