Are these your eyes, Isla, That look into mine? Is this smile, this laugh, Thine? Heart of me, dear, O pulse of my heart, This is our child, our child— And . . . we apart! Wrought of thy life, Isla, Wrought in my womb, Never to feel thy kiss!— Ah, bitter doom. @3Hush, hush: within thine eyes His eyes I see . . . Soft as a bird's sighs Thy breathings rise!@1 . . . If there be Paradise For him and me (Who hold it but a dream Because of bitter fate) The first supernal gleam Beyond the flame-swept gate Shall be thine eyes when thou drawest near— None other shall it be Who his lost hands, with mine, and thine In love refound, shall intertwine . . . But now, alas, alas, we are far apart, My baby dear, Pulse of my Heart! |