To One Who Sang Of Love

by Phoebe Carey

Thou hast sung of love's confession
Out beneath the starry skies,
Of the rapture of the moment
When the soul is breathed in sighs,
And the maiden's trembling transport
As she blushingly replies
To the worship of a lover,
Breathed from speaking lips and eyes.

By the earnest tender pathos
Of thy every witching line,
Such an hour of bliss ecstatic
Has surely once been thine:
And I would that Heaven might answer
This earnest wish of mine,
That thy star of love and beauty
May wane not, nor decline.

Listening to the first contession,
Lingering o'er the first fond kiss, --
What an age of bliss is crowded
In an hour of life like this!
Surely thine at such a moment
Has been perfect happiness,
And the maiden, the fond maiden,
O, I cannot guess her bliss!

Sometimes to my heart in slumber
Thought so like the truth will steal,
That the pressure of sweet kisses
On my brow I almost feel;
And I dream fond lips have uttered
What they might no more conceal;
But I cannot, no, I cannot,
Make such blessed visions real.