DARKNESS — silence — scarce a breath:
Love is lying marble-still.
Is it sleep, or is it death ?
Can the full heart pause at will?
She who loves sits desolate,
Whelmed in midnight cold and deep;
While her very pulses wait,
Asking, Is it death or sleep ?
(Still thee, Soul ! Whate’er it be,
Quell the passion in thy breast.
Questioned, Love must rise and flee :
Keep thy vigil ; let him rest.
Stir not, while he slumbers on,
Till he sigh and softly rise :
Then shalt thou, who deemed him gone,
Feel his kiss upon thine eyes !)
Darkness ! But her gasping breath
Cuts the silence like a cry ;
She will know if this be death,
Though her trembling gladness fly !
On her lamp’s rim breaks a spark,
Waxes to a slender flame;
And her white face, ’gainst the dark,
Shows, a mask of fear and shame.
Slowly moves the fiery blot
Over flower-traced wall and floor.
(Wake him not, — ah, wake him not!
Love awakened dreams no more !)
Slips the light, at her command,
O’er the fair extended form,
O’er the listless, curving hand,
O’er the pure lips, breathing warm.
Is it sleep, or is it death ?
Ah, she knows ! The white lids rise,
Now unveiling, in a breath,
All the glory of his eyes !
Love upsprings beneath her gaze,
Fleeting, flashing through the night, —
Leaving all the air ablaze
With the radiance of his flight!

L’ENVOI.

Keep thy vigil, doubting Soul;
Still thee, till Love’s sleep be o’er;
Wait thy doom of joy or dole:
Love, so roused, is thine no more !
Marion Couthouy Smith.