The thousand little things that love doth treasure up for aye, And brood upon with moistened eyes when she that's loved's away, The word, the look, the smile, the blush, the ribbon that she wore, Each day they grow more dear to me, and pain me more and more. My face I cover with my hands, and bitterly I weep, That the quick-gathering sands of life should choke a love so deep, And that the stream, so pure and bright, must turn it from its track, Or to the heart-springs, whence it rose, roll its full waters back! As calm as doth the lily float close by the lakelet's brim, So calm and spotless, down time's stream, her peaceful days did swim, And I had longed, and dreamed, and prayed, that closely by her side, Down to a haven still and sure, my happy life might glide. But now, alas! those golden days of youth and hope are o'er, And I must dream those dreams of joy, those guiltless dreams no more; Yet there is something in my heart that whispers ceaselessly, "Would God that I might see that face once more before I die!" IANTHE. I. There is a light within her eyes, Like gleams of wandering fire-flies; From light to shade it leaps and moves Whenever in her soul arise The holy shapes of things she loves; Fitful it shines and changes ever, Like star-lit ripples on a river, Or summer sunshine on the eaves Of silver-trembling poplar leaves, Where the lingering dew-drops quiver. I may not tell the blessedness Her mild eyes send to mine, The sunset-tinted haziness Of their mysterious shine, The dim and holy mournfulness Of their mellow light divine; The shadow of the lashes lie Over them so lovingly, That they seem to melt away In a doubtful twilight-gray, While I watch the stars arise In the evening of her eyes, I love it, yet I almost dread To think what it foreshadoweth; And, when I muse how I have read That such strange light betokened death-- Instead of fire-fly gleams, I see Wild corpse-lights gliding waveringly. II.