Джеральд Масси (Gerald Massey)

A Chaunt

Night trembles o'er earth's beauty, now,
Like silvery bridal-veil, hung low!
While I with feverish heart and brow,
    Awake, to weep for thee, love!
The spangled glories of the night,
Earth—saint-like, swathed in splendour
        light.
These cannot win my charmed sight,
    Or lure a thought from thee, love!

I'm pondering o'er that short sweet time,
Our hearts drank in, a summer's prime,
And blossom'd in love's Eden-clime,
    When I was blest with thee, love!
There burned no beauty on the trees;
There woke no song of birds or bees—
But love's cult for us held no lees,
    And I was blest with thee, love!

Then grand, and golden fancies spring
From out my heart, on splendid wing,
Chrysalis, from life's wintering—
    Burst bright and summeringly, love!
And as a chief of battle lost,
Counts, and recounts, his stricken host—
Stands, tearful Memory, making most
    Of all that's toucht with thee, love!

I know in Pleasure's flower-crowned
        bower,
Thy heart may half forget love's power,
But at this still and starry hour,
    Does it not turn to me, love!
O! by all pangs for thy sweet sake,
In my deep love, thy heart-thirst slake,
Or all-too-full, my heart must break;
    Break! break! ! with loving thee, love!

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