Her Sweet Voice

Her sweet voice was a music in mine ear;
And in the perfume of the atmosphere
Which, in that eve, her shadowy presence shed,
"Sister of mystery," trembling I said,
"Too like an angel to be what you seem,
Go not away too soon, beloved dream!"

Then, smiling as a mother will, she seized
My brow, and with soft hands my fever eased.

"Still, thou poor child, this childish fear of me?
Thy forehead furrowed by sad memory,
Are these a shadow's hands that on it rest?
A bright May morn is dawning in thy breast:
Is it a phantom's voice that soothes thy grief?
But if my beauty be beyond belief,
Breathe its terrestrial odour! Part my hair,
And take my veil away and make me bare!
Thou canst not soil my wings, nor stain the snow
Of these frail flowers that in my garden blow;
Come, in so fair an evening, spend the treasure
Of my veiled loveliness in thy heart's pleasure."

Thus sang the tender voice that needs must fade!
And in her kiss the soul was of a maid.
But night came from the rim of autumn skies,
Came from the forest's shallow, evil eyes.