09.02.2019, 17:35
To Heroa
As the brook's song that lulls the quiet lawn,
As meadowy music heard on mountains high,
As cherubs' hymns sung in the ear of Dawn,
When the entranced stars go lingering by, —
So sweet the tremulous voice of her I love!
It seems as if thy bosom, all too weak
To utter the rude murmur of a dove,
Were framed almost too delicate to speak.
Hast thou a little lyre hung in thy breast,
Thy fine heart-strings weft for its slender chords?
Methinks, so sweetly are thy thoughts exprest,
'Tis this that makes the music of thy words!
Even in thy tones that are, or would be gay,
The sigh-swept lyre but seems at melancholy play.
As the brook's song that lulls the quiet lawn,
As meadowy music heard on mountains high,
As cherubs' hymns sung in the ear of Dawn,
When the entranced stars go lingering by, —
So sweet the tremulous voice of her I love!
It seems as if thy bosom, all too weak
To utter the rude murmur of a dove,
Were framed almost too delicate to speak.
Hast thou a little lyre hung in thy breast,
Thy fine heart-strings weft for its slender chords?
Methinks, so sweetly are thy thoughts exprest,
'Tis this that makes the music of thy words!
Even in thy tones that are, or would be gay,
The sigh-swept lyre but seems at melancholy play.