Frances Anne Kemble Poems

Look, love, to yonder mountain's brow:
Seest thou that beckoning hand of snow?
Stern Winter dares no farther come,
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Three windows cheerfully poured in the light:
One from the east, where o'er the Sabine hills
The sun first rose on the great Roman plain,
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It is the dawn! the rosy day awakes;
From her bright hair pale showers of dew she shakes,
And through the heavens her early pathway takes;
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The love that was too poor to purchase you
Is rich enough to buy each noble thing,
That may be reached on the untiring wing
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Oh make not light of love, my lady dear,
For, from that sweetest source doth ever flow
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Round thy steep castle walls,
Who seeks thy love must ride,
Who from their dizzy summit falls,
Must death abide.
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To the smooth beach the silver sea
Comes rippling in a thousand smiles,
And back again runs murmuringly,
To break around yon distant isles.
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Spirit, bright spirit! from thy narrow cell
Answer me! answer me! oh, let me hear
Thy voice, and know that thou indeed art near!
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Lady, whom my beloved loves so well!
When on his clasping arm thy head reclineth,
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Thou art like the bird that alights and sings
Though the frail spray bends—for he knows he has wings.
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