THE waves in kisses tell the shore
Their hopes and fears;
To cheer the wild and shrinking flower
The morn has tears;
The wind at eve e'er chants its plaint
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To cypress groves;
To waving pines, in murmurs faint,
Sorrow the doves.
To swelling tides, when night's dark veil
Frees earth from care,
The moon relates what renders pale
Her cheek so fair.
To heaven Sainte Sophie's domes of white
Their anthems raise;
The heavens musing e'er recite
To God their praise.
All, tree or tomb, - all, dove or rose,
And wave or stone,
Have that to which they may disclose
The thoughts they own.
To me alone naught gives reply,
Alone I want
All answer but thy mournful cry,
Drear Hellespont.
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Hasty Pudding Club.
