BY ABBA GOOLD WOOLSON. All through the summer’s rosy hours
I built my castle fine;
And not a soul should dwell therein,
Save only mine and thine,
My Love,
In loneliness divine.
No cost of make, or wealth of hue
I spared from base to dome;
Where lordly monarchs choose to bide
They rear a kingly home;
And so
This rose like silver foam.
Stand here upon the sunlit plain
And see how fair it shines;
Untaught I planned its airy towers
And shaped its perfect lines;
For love
All excellence divines.
But while I gaze, a dusky film
Across its splendor falls;
My purples and my gold are dim—
What ails the reeling walls?
What doom
Sends terror through its halls?
The keen air sweeps adown the hill:
Give me a hand to hold;
I shiver in these breezes chill
That grow so fierce and bold,
Yet hearts
May laugh at Winter’s cold.
That hand of thine, so fair and strong,
I thought could clasp me warm;
It melts within my burning grasp
Like touch of ghostly form;
I hear
No heart-beat through the storm.
Great winds from out the heavens leap;
No castle-dome appears;
Rain dashes on mine upturned face,
To quench the hope of years:
Pour, floods;
Yet faster flow my tears.