AN OLD MAN TO HIS SLEEPING YOUNG BRIDE.
AS when the old moon lighted by the tender And radiant crescent of the new is seen, And for a moment's space suggests the splendor Of what in its full prime it once has been, So on my waning years you cast the glory Of youth and pleasure, for a little hour; And life again seems like an unread story, And joy and hope both stir me with their power.
Can blooming June be fond of bleak December? I dare not wait to hear my heart reply. I will forget the question—and remember Alone the priceless feast spread for mine eye, That radiant hair that flows across the pillows, Like shimmering sunbeams over drifts of snow; Those heaving breasts, like undulating billows, Whose dangers or delights but Love can know,
That crimson mouth from which sly Cupid borrowed The pattern for his bow, nor asked consent; That smooth, unruffled brow which has not sorrowed—