Читать книгу Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland - Abigail Stanley Hanna - Страница 6

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Sister, the solemn midnight hour

Is meet, to weave the web of thought,

To trace the shadowy imagery,

From fancy's secret chambers brought.

To enter Memory's hidden cell,

And bid the sentinel appear;

Her strange, mysterious tales to tell,

And wipe the dust from by-gone years.

To wander back down time's dark stream,

And from its margin pluck the flowers,

To twine them with the moon's pale beams,

Then fling them over Memory's bow'rs.

To gather all the fragments up,

The phantoms chase of other years;

Their blighted joys, their withered hopes,

Their clouds, their sunshine, and their tears.

We'll wander forth while others sleep,

Fanned gently by the night wind's sigh

And thus our midnight vigils keep,

While night's fair lamps burn bright on high.

We'll wander in the realms of thought,

That boundless space, who may define?

From which more dazzling gems are brought

Than sparkle in Golconda's mine.

Then, sister, let us linger not,

The conscious moon her lamp holds high,

And with her smiling, placid face,

Beams from the chambers of the sky.

Touched by fancy's magic spell,

We'll conjure up the things of yore;

From their cold chambers bring the dead,

And friends of former years restore.

But oh, the shadows will not stay,--

The dreamy shadows of the past;

Before the sun they'll fade away--

Their mystic visions cannot last.

Then let us leave the world of dreams

Where shapes and shadows melt away;

Bathe in salvation's cooling streams,

And soar to realms of endless day.