As the conviction sinks into my spirit That my quick heart is doomed to death in life; Or that these pangs must pierce and never sear it, I am abandoned to despairing strife. To the lost life, alas! no more returning-- In this to come no semblance of the past-- Only to wait!--hoping this ceaseless yearning May, 'ere long, end--and rest may come at last. PALMA. What tellest thou to heaven, Thou royal tropic tree? At morn or noon or even, Proud dweller by the sea, What is thy song to heaven? The homesick heart that fainted In torrid sun and air, With peace becomes acquainted Beholding thee so fair-- With joy becomes acquainted: And charms itself with fancies About thy kingly race-- With gay and wild romances That mimic thee in grace-- Of supple, glorious fancies. I feel thou art not tender, Scion of sun and sea-- The wild-bird does not render To thee its minstrelsy-- Fearing thou art not tender: But calm, serene and saintly, As highborn things should be: Who, if they love us faintly, Make us love reverently, Because they are so saintly. To be loved without loving, O proud and princely palm! Is to fancy our ship moving With the ocean at dead calm-- The joy of love is loving. Because the Sun did sire thee, The Ocean nurse thy youth, Because the Stars desire thee, The warm winds whisper truth, Shall nothing ever fire thee? What is thy tale to heaven In the sultry tropic noon? What whisperest thou at even To the dusky Indian Moon-- Has she sins to be forgiven? Keep all her secrets; loyal As only great souls are-- As only souls most royal, To the flower or to the star Alike are purely loyal. O Palma, if thou hearest, Thou proud and princely tree! Thou knowest that my Dearest Is emblemed forth in thee-- My kingly Palm, my Dearest. I am his Moon admiring, His wooing Wind, his Star; And I glory in desiring My Palm-tree from afar-- Glad as happier lovers are, Am happy in desiring! MAKING MOAN. _I have learned how vainly given_ _Life's most precious things may be._ --Landon. O, Christ, to-night I bring A sad, weak heart, to lay before thy feet; Too sad, almost, to cling Even to Thee; too suffering, If Thou shouldst pierce me, to regard the sting; Too stunned to feel the pity I entreat Closing around me its embraces sweet. Shepherd, who gatherest up The weary ones from all the world's highways; And bringest them to sup Of Thy bread, and Thy blessed cup; If so Thou will, lay me within the scope Only of Thy great tenderness, that rays Too melting may not reach me from Thy face.