Written in an Album.

    Pure faced page！ waiting so long To welcome my muse¹ and me； Fold to thy breast, like a mother, the song That floats from my spirit to thee.

    And song！ sound soft as the streamlet sings, And sweet as the Summer's birds, And pure and bright and white be the wings That will waft² thee into words.

    Yea！ fly as the sea-birds fly over the sea To rest on the far-off beach, And breathe forth³ the message I trust to thee, Tear toned on the shores of speech.

    But ere you go, dip your snowy wing In a wave of my spirit's deep -In a wave that is purest —— then haste and bring A song to the hearts that weep.

    Oh！ bring it, and sing it —— its notes are tears； Its octaves, the octaves of grief； Who knows but its tones in the far-off years May bring to the lone⁴ heart relief？

    Yea！ bring it, and sing it —— a worded moan That sweeps thro' the

    minors⁵ of woe⁶, With mystical meanings in every tone, the sea's lone flow. * * * * * And sounds like And the thoughts take the wings of words, and float Out of my spirit

    to thee； But the song dies away into only one note, And sounds but in only one key.

    And the note！ 'tis the wail⁷ of the weariest wave That sobs⁸ on the loneliest shore； And the key！ never mind, it comes out of a grave； And the chord！ —— 'tis a sad "nevermore".

    And just like the wavelet that moans on the beach, And, sighing, sinks back to the sea, So my song —— it just touches the rude shores of speech, And its music melts back into me.

    Yea, song！ shrink back to my spirit's lone deep, Let others hear only thy moan —— But I —— I forever shall hear the grand sweep Of thy mighty⁹ and tear-burdened tone. Sweep on, mighty song！ —— sound down in my heart As a storm sounding under a sea； Not a sound of thy music shall pass into art, Nor a note of it float out from me.