Night, and its noon and a far to-morrow, Grey with the fears Of a future that leans to a past to borrow Its meed of tears. White are the drifts outside; and hither, Around her bed, White comes the face, that asks, oh, whither Fares forth my dead? White is the taper clasped in her fingers! Her lips are white; Recall Thy judgment, O God! that lingers This weary night! Hark! from the ivy across the river Moaneth the bell; Death! fling thy arrow back to its quiver; There! it is well! Still as the marble and cold she seemeth, Looking afar; Round the wide orb of her future gleameth Her life's lone star. Frail, how the garments of life still hold her From the far flight Through the trail of the stars, whose eyes enfold her Beyond the night. Hark! how again the soul-bell splinters The granite gloom, Thick with the murk of a thousand winters, And a halting doom. Come, O ye Spirits, that float and hover Above the soul! Is there no gleam of bliss to cover Grey death and dole? There, once again like a bolt from heaven (Why always three?) Thunders the soul-bell till earth is riven 'Twixt you and me. A flash of crimson; in some far bourn A star hath bled; Earth and the sky have met to mourn Ismene, dead! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GREEN MOUNTAIN IDYL by HAYDEN CARRUTH MY FATHER'S FACE by HAYDEN CARRUTH PENDULUM by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON GHOSTS OF THE OLD YEAR by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON FLUTE-PRIEST SONG FOR RAIN; CEREMONIAL AT THE SUN SPRING by AMY LOWELL THE CRESCENT MOON by AMY LOWELL |