Her Shawl

DEAREST, where art thou ? In the silent room
I find this wonder of some foreign loom,
Thy silken shawl, whose lines of loveliness
The matchless beauty of thy form caress.
Delicate raiment, shall I dare infold
All these warm kisses ’mid thy threads of gold ?
Oh, hold them close her icy heart above,
Melting its winter into summer’s love !
Beneath her coldness fonder still I grow,
As violets bloom along the edge of snow.
Through my sad heart there drifts a hope divine, -
O’er seas storm-swept shall softer mornings shine.
Oh, fairer thou than dawn ! Here at thy feet
I wait, and kiss thy garment’s hem, my sweet.
Oscar Laighton.