Lines (I Saw, or Dreamed I Saw, Her Sitting Lone)
I saw, or dreamed I saw, her sitting lone, Her neck bent like a swan's, her brown eyes thrown On some sweet poem—his, I think, who sings Oenone, or the hapless Maud: no rings Flashed from the dainty fingers, which held back Her beautiful blonde hair. Ah! would these black Locks of mine own were mingling with it now, And these warm lips were pressed against her brow! And, as she turned a page, methought I heard— Hush! could it be?—a faintly murmured word, It was so softly dwelt on—such a smile Played on her brow and wreathed her lip the while That my heart leaped to hear it, and a flame Burned on my forehead—Sa'ra!—'t was my name.
Henry Timrod’s other poems:
