Another of Grandfather's poems. I imagine it was written for Grandmother!
The flute in the valley below
O Love, it is pleading for me,
The low, liquid airs as they flow,
Are telling my yearning for thee.
For my lips they are stricken and dumb,
When thy soul-piercing beauty I see.
The whip-poor-will calls from the wood,
Where the gloom and the grey shadow lies,
He knew how entranced I stood,
As I looked in the depths of your eyes;
And his song is the song of my heart,
But the song on my lips ever dies.
The wind from the covert has stept,
In the leaf-latticed moonlight has strayed,
While old serenades that have slept
On the deep strings of night, sweep the glade,
And my soul it re-echoes the strain,
But my lips - Ah, my lips are afraid.
The flute now is laid on the sill,
The whip-poor-will sleeps on the bough,
The wind in the maples is still,-
The curls lying calm on thy brow;
O girl of the wondrous grey eyes,
Let me sing, - let me sing to thee now!
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2 comments:
Wow, very beautiful!
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