Yes, though the brine may from the desert deep Run itself sweet before it finds the foam, O what to him, whose deep heart once a home For love and light, is left? to walk and weep: Still, with astonished sorrow, watch to keep On his dead day. He weeps and knows his doom, Yet standeth stunned; as one who climbs a steep And, dreaming softly of the cottage room, The faces round the porch, the rose in showers, Gains the last height between his heart and it-- And from the windows where his children sleep Sees the red fire fork or, later come, Finds, where he left his home, a smouldering pit, Blackness and scalding stench, for love and flowers. |