by Bayard Taylor
One thought sits brooding in my bosom,
As broodeth in her nest the dove;
A strange, delicious doubt o'ercomes me, --
But is it love?
I see her, hear her, daily, nightly:
My secret dreams around her move,
Still nearer drawn in sweet attraction; --
Can this be love?
Is 't love without his tender tumult?
Or passion purified from pain?
In calmer forms the old emotions
So still the stream, towards her setting,
I whisper: Can it rise above
Her banks, and flood the guarded island
Where blooms her love?
Will she, to hear a voice so timid,
A shy and doubtful heart incline,
Though desperate hope and endless longing
Awake in mine?
I breathe but peace when she is near me, --
A peace her absence takes away:
My heart commands her constant presence:
Will hers obey?
Source:The Poet's Journal
Ticknor and Fields, Boston