THE coals have lower, fainter burned; These pages, worn and finger-turned, Fade with the light. No friend is here; we are alone, My thoughts and I, while winds do moan, And speeds the night. A host of fancies fill the room, And voices whispering from the gloom Are here with me. Can thoughts take form? A well-loved face, Lit, as of old, with fairest grace, I surely see. Not length of days, not land nor sea, Have power to sever thee from me, O truest heart. To wait in patience, shine or rain, Longing until we meet again, Shall be my part. And I had doubted this, and gave Full room to aching grief, a grave Amid my dreams. Sweet vision with thy coming, ring Memories of meads and birds that sing O'er purling streams. The morning spans the eastern hills; The yearning flower its petal fills With gentle rains; All life assumes a brighter robe: e mine to trust, to love, to hope, To meet again. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...UP AT A VILLA - DOWN IN THE CITY by ROBERT BROWNING THE OLD WOMAN by JOSEPH CAMPBELL NEW PRINCE, NEW POMP by ROBERT SOUTHWELL DUSK ON ENGLISH BAY by EARL (EARLE) BIRNEY LYRIC AND EPIC by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON A COMMENT ON COMMENT IN GENERAL CONFESSION OF SINS, IN CHURCH LITURGY by JOHN BYROM |