I miss thee
I miss thee
When the World Doth Slumber
When all the world in quiet slumber lies,
and in thy garden fair the roses rest,
I rise with naked feet in silent guise
and stand upon the balcony to gaze.
The midnight air doth stir my lonely breast,
and there within my heart an echo wakes,
a trembling thought no rest nor sleep can take:
Am I there?
Am I within thy heart?
I dream of thee; yet far our worlds remain,
as stars divided in the vaulted sky,
that look upon each other through the night
yet never meet, nor draw a little nigh.
My weary mind grows faint with longing sore,
my spirit bends beneath love’s gentle weight,
and in the stillness of the midnight hour
a sigh escapes the silence of my lips
and whispers softly to the darkened air:
Am I there?
Dost thou yet care for me?
I clasp thy portrait close within my hands,
whilst in the depth of shadowed night alone
a tear descends, unbidden from mine eyes,
and falleth softly through my quiet soul.
Am I yet thine?
O Darling…
my love…
how dearly do I miss thee.
I keep a garden where my roses bloom;
yet of all blossoms growing in that place,
thou art the fairest rose mine eyes have known,
the most beloved flower of my heart.
And from that garden, through the midnight wind,
my tender voice in gentle longing calls:
Dost thou hear me?
........
When the World Doth Slumber
When the world doth slumber deep,
and the roses of thy garden lie in gentle rest,
I rise barefoot in the silent hour
and gaze upon the night
from the balcony of my chamber.
A tender echo awaketh within my heart,
a question softly stirring in the dark:
Am I there?
Am I yet within thy heart?
I dream of thee,
yet we wander in worlds apart,
like distant stars in heaven’s vault
that behold one another
yet may never meet.
My mind groweth weary,
my soul faint beneath the weight of longing,
and in the solemn stillness of midnight
a quiet sigh escapeth my lips
and whispereth softly:
Am I there?
Dost thou yet care for me?
I hold thy portrait close within my hands,
whilst in the thick and shadowed dark
a single tear descendeth gently
into the depths of my soul.
Am I still thine?
O heart…
my love…
how greatly I do miss thee.
I keep a garden
where many roses bloom fair,
yet of all the roses that grace my garden,
thou art the most precious.
And from this garden of memory
my voice wandereth upon the midnight wind:
Dost thou hear me?
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