Oh, to be By J.R. Dunmore
Oh, to be loved,
revealed essence.
Truth found in whisper and touch.
Oh, to be known,
personal lesson.
To love is to know so much.
Oh, to be yours,
more than possession.
To own and to be owned and such.
Oh, to be loved,
Oh, to be known,
Oh, to be yours.
The Virginians Of The Valley by Francis Orray Ticknor
The knightliest knights of the knightly race
Who, since the days of old,
Have kept the lamp of chivalry
Alight in hearts of gold:
The kindliest of the kindly band
Who, rarely hating ease,
Yet rode with Spottswood round the land,
And Raleigh round the seas;
Who climbed the blue Virginia hills
Against embattled foes,
And planted there, in valleys fair,
The lily and the rose;
Whose fragrance lives in many lands,
Whose beauty stars the earth,
And lights the hearths of happy homes
With loveliness and worth.
We thought they slept! the sons who kept
The names of noble sires,
And slumbered while the darkness crept
Around their vigil-fires;
But aye the "Golden Horseshoe" Knights
Their old Dominion keep,
Whose foes have found enchanted ground,
But not a knight asleep!
To Whom? By Henry Timrod
Awake upon a couch of pain,
I see a star betwixt the trees;
Across yon darkening field of cane,
Comes slow and soft the evening breeze.
My curtain's folds are faintly stirred;
And moving lightly in her rest,
I hear the chirrup of a bird,
That dreameth in some neighboring nest.
Last night I took no note of these—
How it was passed I scarce can say;
'T was not in prayers to Heaven for ease,
'T was not in wishes for the day.
Impatient tears, and passionate sighs,
Touched as with fire the pulse of pain,—
I cursed, and cursed the wildering eyes
That burned this fever in my brain.
Oh! blessings on the quiet hour!
My thoughts in calmer current flow;
She is not conscious of her power,
And hath no knowledge of my woe.
Perhaps, if like yon peaceful star,
She looked upon my burning brow,
She would not pity from afar,
But kiss me as the breeze does now.
To Thee By Henry Timrod
Draw close the lattice and the door!
Shut out the very stars above!
No other eyes than mine shall pore
Upon this thrilling tale of love.
As, since the book was open last,
Along its dear and sacred text
No other eyes than thine have passed—
Be mine the eyes that trace it next!
Oh! very nobly is it wrought,—
This web of love's divinest light,—
But not to feed my soul with thought,
Hang I upon the book to-night;
I read it only for thy sake,
To every page my lips I press—
The very leaves appear to make
A silken rustle like thy dress.
And so, as each blest page I turn,
I seem, with many a secret thrill,
To touch a soft white hand, and burn
To clasp and kiss it at my will.
Oh! if a fancy be so sweet,
These shadowy fingers touching mine—
How wildly would my pulses beat,
If they COULD feel the beat of thine!
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