The Philosopher To His Love

Dearest, a look is but a ray     Reflected in a certain way;     A word, whatever tone it wear,     Is but a trembling wave of air;     A touch, obedience to a clause     In nature's pure material laws.     The very flowers that bend and meet,     In sweetening others, grow more sweet;     The clouds by day, the stars by night,     Inweave their floating locks of light;     The rainbow, Heaven's own forehead's braid,     Is but the embrace of sun and shade.     Oh! in the hour when I shall feel     Those shadows round my senses steal,     When gentle eyes are weeping o'er     The clay that feels their tears no more,     Then let thy spirit with me be,     Or some sweet angel, likest thee!     How few that love us have we found!     How wide the world that girds them round     Like mountain streams we meet and part,     Each living in the other's heart,     Our course unknown, our hope to be     Yet mingled in the distant sea.     But Ocean coils and heaves in vain,     Bound in the subtle moonbeam's chain;     And love and hope do but obey     Some cold, capricious planet's ray,     Which lights and leads the tide it charms     To Death's dark caves and icy arms.     Alas! one narrow line is drawn,     That links our sunset with our dawn;     In mist and shade life's morning rose,     And clouds are round it at its close;     But ah! no twilight beam ascends     To whisper where that evening ends.