Good Intentions.
Above the teeming city hangs the moon ;1
The patient stars their dumb night-watches keep,2
As maidens who do their sweet souls attune3
To love, o’erleaning their sick lovers’ sleep.4
Doth not this silence, like a sudden shame,5
Strike red the brows yet throbbing from the bowl ?6
Make calm the eyes that were but now aflame ?7
Pierce through its earthy film, and touch the soul ?8
For us no more the Wine-cup and the Curse,9
No more the parched Lips, the lessening Gold,10
The Love that grows and dwindles with the Purse ;11
No more, from this, by Heaven, the fools of old !12
So swear we all—meanwhile, the Starry time13
More full of Pity grows, and we of Crime.14