SHE sings, but still my eyes— The half of me is sight— Her beauty occupies
And inundates with light.
Then wrap me round in dark, Though for her light I long, That all of me may hark To all a world of song.
The melody she sings I and the dark room share ; She plucks the hidden strings Of music in the air.
The sleeping tunes, caressed By her light fingers, wake : Her touch falls on my breast, I tremble for her sake.
My dinning pulses stir A tumult, and confound The soft approach of her With muffled drums of sound.
G. ROSTREVOR HAMILTON.