Upon the upturned faces of a thousand Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, II. Clad all in white, upon a violet bank III. Was it not Fate that, on this July midnight,- -(O Heaven! O God! How my heart beats in coupling those two words!) Save only thee and me. I paused-I looked And in an instant all things disappeared. All-all expired save thee-save less than thou: I saw but them—they were the world to me; IV. But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. Their office is to illumine and enkindle- And sanctified in their elysian fire. They fill my soul with beauty (which is hope), TO MY MOTHER.* BECAUSE I feel that in the heavens above And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you My mother-my own mother, who died early— Are mother to the one I love so dearly, And thus are dearer than the mother I knew By that affinity with which my wife Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life. * Addressed to a lady who well deserved that name from Poe-MARIA CLEMM, his mother-in-law. See Willis's Hurry Graphs.- ED. |