William Motherwell

“ I would joy in the music thy light pulse is making,
I would press the soft cheek where the rose-buds unfold—
I would rest on the brow where pure thought's ever waking,
And lovingly glide through thy tresses of gold. ”

“ I gaze on thee and sigh,
To think how soon some hearts run o'er
With love, and then run dry.
I need not marvel long
That love in thee expires,
For shallowest streams have loudest song,
Most smoke the weakest fires. ”

“ Till he knelt at her bouir—
As lark's rejoicin' in the sun,
Her princely paramour.
But dull, dull now is Ellen's eye,
And wan, wan is her cheek,
And slow an' heavy is her fit
That lonesome paths would seek ”