by religion,— a selfish craving only; every source of enjoyment stifled to cherish this burning thirst.
Yet the picture, so minute in its touches, is true as death.
I should not like Delphine now.
Events in life, apparently trivial, often seemed to her full of mystic significance, and it was her pleasure to turn such to poetry.
On one occasion, the sight of a passion-flower, given by one lady to another, and then lost, appeared to her so significant of the character, relation, and destiny of the two, that it drew from her line of which two or three seem worth preserving, as indicating her feeling of social relations.
Dear friend, my heart grew pensive when I saw
The flower, for thee so sweetly set apart,
By one whose passionless though tender heart
Is worthy to bestow, as angels are,
By an unheeding hand conveyed away,
To close, in unsoothed night, the promise of its day.
The mystic flower read in thy soul-filled eye
To its life's question the desired reply,
But came no nearer.
On thy gentle breast
It hoped to find the haven of its rest;
But in cold night, hurried afar from thee,
It closed its once half-smiling destiny.
Yet thus, methinks, it utters as it dies,—
‘By the pure truth of those calm, gentle eyes
Which saw my life should find its aim in thin,
I see a clime where no strait laws confine.
In that blest land where twos ne'er know a three
Save as the accord of their fine sympathy,
O, best-loved, I will wait for thee!’