« AnteriorContinuar »
Yet unto thee, New England, still
I FILL this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air, 'tis less of earth than heaven.
Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning birds,
And something more than melody dwells ever in her words;
The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each flows
As one may see the burdened bee forth issue from the TOS6.
Affections are as thoughts to her, the measure of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrance and the freshness of young flowers;
And lonely passions changing oft, so fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns—the idol of past years.
Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on the brain,
And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long remain;
But memory such as mine of her so very much endears,
When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be life's, but hers.
I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
I THINK of thee, when morning springs
And, like a young bird, lifts her wings
And when, at noon, the breath of love,
And sent in music from the grove,
I think of thee, when soft and wide
And, like a young and timid bride,
And when the moon's sweet crescent springs
And stars are forth like blessed things,