LORD TENNYSON.

By Mathilde Blind

Thou walkest with me as the spirit-light

Of the hushed moon, high o'er a snowy hill,

Walks with the houseless traveller all the night,

When trees are tongueless and when mute the rill.

Moon of my soul, O phantasm of delight,

Thou walkest with me still.

The vestal flame of quenchless memory burns

In my soul's sanctuary. Yea, still for thee

My bitter heart hath yearned, as moonward yearns

Each separate wave-pulse of the clamorous sea:

My Moon of love, to whom for ever turns

The life that aches through me.