Mignon

What art thou, Mignon, child of mystery?
A woodbird e'en in galling fetters caught?
Dwelling apart in charmed reverie,
Crushed by the weight of undeveloped thought,
Thou seem'st some weird, sad spirit of the Past,
Guarding a secret life cannot unfold;
Yet was thy soul's calm rapture lily-pure,
Thy heart's fond treasures bright as rarest gold.

Dim pictures of soft skies and orange groves,
Of marble statues with their pitying gaze,
Lured thee to musing; while the cloudlets built
An airy path for thee amid the haze.
Sweet are thy songs of longing; thou didst dream
Of sunny isles where no rude questioner
Shall need to ask of man or woman more,
And no unrest thy weary soul shall stir.

What depths of sorrow in thy dreamy life,
Around which Mem'ry wove a subtle chain;
Thy ev'ry gesture, ev'ry glance expressed
Intensity of yearning deep with pain,
Yet lit by Hope's illuminating smile;
Faith hov'ring over thee, thou phantom bright,
Shed gleams along thy tragic path, until
Thy spirit's wings unfolded in the Light.