by abba goold woolson.

all through the summer’s rosy hours

i built my castle fine;

and not a soul should dwell therein,

save only mine and thine,

my love,

in loneliness divine.

no cost of make, or wealth of hue

i spared from base to dome;

where lordly monarchs choose to bide

they rear a kingly home;

and so

this rose like silver foam.

stand here upon the sunlit plain

and see how fair it shines;

untaught i planned its airy towers

and shaped its perfect lines;

for love

all excellence divines.

but while i gaze, a dusky film

across its splendor falls;

my purples and my gold are dim—

what ails the reeling walls?

what doom

sends terror through its halls?

the keen air sweeps adown the hill:

give me a hand to hold;

i shiver in these breezes chill

that grow so fierce and bold,

yet hearts

may laugh at winter’s cold.

that hand of thine, so fair and strong,

i thought could clasp me warm;

it melts within my burning grasp

like touch of ghostly form;

i hear

no heart-beat through the storm.

great winds from out the heavens leap;

no castle-dome appears;

rain dashes on mine upturned face,

to quench the hope of years:

pour, floods;

yet faster flow my tears.