The Apostrophe
Go, unsaid thought, wordless and songless both!
With fluttering pinions, still unseen, unsought,
Circle the spirit’s white flame like a moth—
Go—unsaid thought!
Go to the one by whom my soul is taught;
Go—wing your joyous journey, nothing loth
Like sunbeams in the hearts of lilies caught,
Like perfume that eludes, yet lingereth;—
Until your subtle mission’s fully wrought—
To charm, as a dear dream’s pale image doth,—
Go—unsaid thought!