Had love an answer to its prayer,
Sweet Iona, I would be there,
To solace and caress thee;
Had love an answer to its prayer,
How truly I wert thine;
But love seems prone to go alone,
Of first incentives shorn.
And thou art far away this eve,
And such an eve it is, believe
Me Iona, believe!
How sorely doth thine absence grieve,
What happiness wert mine,
Could we now stroll and soul to soul
Unbosom and forget.
Sweet Iona, forget, forget,
Unbosom now and freely let
Vain, fickle pride depart,
Be thou thyself, come let us yet
Of love's nepenthe drink,
As in the olden and the golden
Happy, dreamy days.
For this I'd stroll with thee, sweetheart,
From all the social world apart,
I'd go once more with thee;
Nor would I care how keen the dart,
Sharp the wit, nor foul the tongue,
Of rumor, dear, that fills the ear
Of gossipers at large.
I'd rather stray, sweetheart, with thee,
Than know the sweetest ecstacy,
Of elite folks and grand,
Nor question I my destiny,
Be it but linked with thine;
For he lives best who is caressed
By the woman whom he loves.
The moon is at its best tonight,
The sky is fair, the stars are bright,
The air, bescent'd with flowers,
Goes winging by in zephyrs light
As Aeolus can blow them;
And by the way he winds the lay
Of other youths and lassies.
It is the hour, the happy time,
When lovers strike their sweetest chime
Of deep and fervent wooing;
When looks are vows, and vows sublime,
That ripple into smiles and blend
Assenting thought to all they ought,
When words were mean expression.
And on the border line between
The upper and the lower sheen,
Of day and mystic night,
Our wounded love and pride, I wean,
Might find a charm to soothe them,
In mending all and blending all
Their broken chords of weal.