Princess, that all this craft of moonlight threw Across my path, this deep immortal smart Shall still burn on when winds my ashes strew: A woman--and yet how much more thou art!
You bear a flower in your hand, You softly take it through the air, Lest it should be too roughly fanned, And break and fall, for all your care.
Love is like that, the lightest breath Shakes all its blossoms o'er the land, And its mysterious cousin, Death, Waits but to snatch it from your hand.
O some day, should your hand forget, Your guardian eyes stray otherwhere, Your cheeks shall all in vain be wet, Vain all your penance and your prayer.
God gave you once this creature fair, You two mysteriously met; By Time's strange stream There stood this Dream, This lovely Immortality Given your mortal eyes to see, That might have been your darling yet; But in the place Of her strange face Sorrow will stand forever more, And Sorrow's hand be on your brow, And vainly you shall watch the door For her so lightly with you now, And all the world be as before. Ah; Spring shall sing and Summer bloom, And flowers fill Life's empty room, And all the singers sing in vain, Nor bring you back your flower again.
O have a care!--for this is all: Let not your magic blossom fall.
Had I the gold that some so vainly spend, For my lost loves a temple would I raise, A shrine for each dear name: there should ascend Incense for ever, and hymns of golden praise; And I would live the remnant of my days, Where hallowed windows cast their painted gleams, At prayer before each consecrated face, Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams.
And each fair altar, like a priest, I'd tend, Trimming the tapers to a constant blaze, And to each lovely and beloved friend Garlands I'd bring, and virginal soft sprays From April's bodice, and moon-breasted May's, And there should be a sound for ever of streams And birds 'mid happy leaves in that still place,-- Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams.
O'er missals of hushed memories would I bend, And thrilling scripts of bosom-scented phrase, Telling of love that never hath an end, And sacred relics of wonder-working grace, Strands of bright hair, and tender webs of lace, Press to my lips--until the Present seems The Past again to my ensorcelled gaze,-- Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams.