Soft from the linden’s bough,
Unmoved against the tranquil afternoon,
Eve’s dove laments her now:
“Ah, gone! long gone! shall not I find thee soon?”
That yearning in his voice
Told not to Paradise a sorrow’s tale:
As other birds rejoice
He sang, a brother to the nightingale.
By twilight on her breast
He saw the flower sleep, the star awake;
And calling her from rest,
Made all the dawn melodious for her sake.
And then the Tempter’s breath,
The sword of exile and the mortal chain—
The heritage of death
That gave her heart to dust, his own to pain….
In Eden desolate
The seraph heard his lonely music swoon,
As now, reiterate;
“Ah, gone! long gone! shall not I find thee soon?