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Poem by Henry Timrod

To Thee

Draw close the lattice and the door!
 Shut out the very stars above!
No other eyes than mine shall pore
 Upon this thrilling tale of love.
As, since the book was open last,
 Along its dear and sacred text
No other eyes than thine have passed
 Be mine the eyes that trace it next!

Oh! very nobly is it wrought,
 This web of love's divinest light,
But not to feed my soul with thought,
 Hang I upon the book to-night;
I read it only for thy sake,
 To every page my lips I press
The very leaves appear to make
 A silken rustle like thy dress.

And so, as each blest page I turn,
 I seem, with many a secret thrill,
To touch a soft white hand, and burn
 To clasp and kiss it at my will.
Oh! if a fancy be so sweet,
 These shadowy fingers touching mine
How wildly would my pulses beat,
 If they COULD feel the beat of thine!

Henry Timrod

Henry Timrod's other poems:
  1. Madeline
  2. Two Portraits
  3. On Pressing Some Flowers
  4. To a Captive Owl
  5. Lines to R. L.

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