Theodore Tilton



The Monk's Matin

by Theodore Tilton


Our night has vanished like a dream;
Too fast the witching hours flew by;
The moon too kindly veiled her beam;
We might have feared a clearer sky.


We could not see each other's face,
For not a firefly lit a spark:
May Heaven forgive the mad embrace,
For we were blinded by the dark!


Within our garden of delight,
We thought the rose without a thorn:
And so we plucked the sweet at night,
Nor ever felt the wound till morn.


The shadows bring the hours of bliss:
The sunbeams that on lovers shine
Dry off the dews from lips that kiss,
Till love is left but half divine.


But could the joy be unrestrained, --
And could the love go free of blame, --
O, would the midnight never waned,
And would the morning never came!


The Sexton's Tale, And Other Poems.
Copyright 1867
Sheldon And Company, New York.