Classic Poem

Time was when, with the unrestraint
Of an enamoured soul and hand,—
In lieu of these cold words, that faint
And waver like a willow wand
Before the vision I would paint,—
I would have seized the ready brush,
And, with the limner's clearer art,
Poured out the softer hues that flush
And flow within the painter's heart;
Have shown you where she passed or stood,
Between the Alpine light and shade;
Her stately form, her air subdued,
Her dark eye mellowing to the mood
That round her inmost spirit played.
I would have wrought the daylight through
To give what yet before me beams,
And ceased at eve but to renew
The impassioned labour in my dreams.
But this is past: life takes and gives,
And o'er the dust of hopes long gone
The vision brightens as it lives,
And mocks the hand that would have drawn.

Along those windings high and vast,
Through frequent sun and shade she stole,
And all the Alpine splendour passed
Into the chambers of her soul;
For she was of that better clay
Which treads not oft this earthly stage:
Such charméd spirits lose their way
But once or twice into an age.
Her voice was one that thrills and clings
Forever in the hearer's bosom,—
As when a bee with flashing wings
Cleaves to the centre of a blossom,—
And with the mule-bells' measured chime
Her fancies rung themselves to rhyme.