The Spirit of My Song

Tell me—have you ever met her—Met the spirit of my song—Have her wave-like footsteps glidedThrough the city's worldly throng?You will know her by a wreath,Woven all of starry light,That is lying 'mid her hair—Braided hair as dark as night.

A short band of radiant summersIs upon her forehead laid,Twining half in golden sunlight,Keeping half in dreamy shade;Five white fingers clasp a lyre,Five its silvery strings awake,And bewildering to the soulIs the music that they make.

Though her glances sleep like shadows'Neath each falling, silken lash,Yet at aught that wakes resentment,They magnificently flash.Though you loved such dewy dream-light,And such glances of sweet surprise,You could never bear the scornOf these proud and brilliant eyes.

There's a sweet and winning curvingIn her bright lip's crimson hue,And a glittering tint of rosesFrom her soft cheek gleaming through;Do you think that you have met her?She is young and pure and fair,And she wears a wreath of starlightIn her braided ebon hair.

Often at her feet I'm sitting,With my head upon her knee,While she tells me dreams of beautyIn low words of melody;And when my unskillful fingersStrive her silvery lyre to wake,She will smooth my tresses, smilingAt the discord which I make.

But of late days I have missed her—The bright being of my love—And perchance she's stolen pinions,And has floated up above.Tell me—have you ever met her—Met the spirit of my song—Have her wave-like footsteps glidedThrough the city's worldly throng?