THAT which we were forever stands between Ourselves and that we would be. With frail hands, Cold upon either's wrist, an Old Year stands And holds us prisoners for what has been; And pitiful her eyes that needs must screen Our restless eyes that turn toward unseen lands And strange new days, and all the heart's demands Falter and fail before her wistful mien. Surely we need but little strength to break This feeble hold and turn and wander free, Each one his separate way beyond her door; Strange that we stand here sullenly for sake Of that brief joy she gave to you and me, Ere Love went weeping to return no more. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE KING'S DAUGHTER by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE THE CUCKOO by ALEXANDER ANDERSON HONOUR'S MARTYR by EMILY JANE BRONTE THE PRISONER by EMILY JANE BRONTE BROADWAY by WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER |