A cry burst from Reve de Noir
which rent our very souls; and a flash followed, unspeakably bright, which
revealed the demoniacal features of the Duke, who sat motionless,
regarding Dalton's uplifted arm. A darkness followed, profound and
palpable. I listened in terror. There was no sound. Were we transformed?
Silence, darkness, still. I closed my eyes, and opened them again. A pale,
cold light became slowly perceptible, stealing through a crevice, and
revealing the walls and ceiling of my narrow room. The dream still
oppressed me. I went to the window, and let in reality with the morning
light. Yet, for days after, the images of the real Honoria and Dalton, my
friends, remained separated from the creatures of the vision; and the
Denslow Palace of dreamland, the pictures, the revelry, and the magic of
the Demon Duke haunted my memory, and kept with them all their visionary
splendors and regrets.
MYRTLE FLOWERS
Since Love within my heart made nest,
With the fond trust of brooding bird,
I find no all-embracing word
To say how deeply I am blest.
Though wintry clouds are in the air
And the dead leaves unburied lie,
Nor open is the violet's eye,
I see new beauty everywhere.
I walk beneath the naked trees,
Where wild streams shiver as they pass,
Yet in the sere and sighing grass
I hear a murmur as of bees,--
The bees that in love's morning rise
From tender eyes and lips to drain,
In ecstasies of blissful pain,
The sweets that bloomed in Paradise.
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