On a carv'd sill I leant
(A fleur-de-lis bound with an English rose)
And look'd above me into two such eyes
As would have dazzl'd from that ancient page
That new old cry that hearts so often write
In their own ashes, "All is vanity!"
"Know'st thou--" she said, with tender eyes far-fix'd,
On the wide arch that domes our little earth,
"That when a star hurls on with shining wings,
"On some swift message from his throne of light,
"The ready heart may wish, and the ripe fruit--
"Fulfilment--drop into the eager palm?"
"Then let us watch for such a star," quoth I.
"Nay, love," she said, "'Tis but an idle tale."
But some swift feeling smote upon her brow
A rosy shadow. I turn'd and watch'd the sky--
Calmly the cohorts of the night swept on,
Led by the wide-wing'd vesper; and against the moon
Where low her globe trembl'd upon the edge
Of the wide amethyst that clearly paved
The dreamy sapphire of the night, there lay
The jetty spars of some tall ship, that look'd
The night's device upon his ripe-red shield.
And suddenly down towards the moon there ran--
From some high space deep-veil'd in solemn blue,
A little star, a point of trembling gold,
Gone swift as seen. "My wishing-star," quoth I,
"Shall tell my wish? Did'st note that little star?
"Its brightness died not, it but disappeared,
"To whirl undim'd thro' space.
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