Poems

SHE said, ‘I will come back again
As soon as breaks the morn.’
But the lark was wearying of the blue,
The dew dry on the thorn;
And all was still forlorn.

She said, ’I will come back again,
At the first quick stroke of noon.’
But the birds were hid in the shade from the heat
When the clock said, ‘No? — But — soon!’
And then beat slowly on.

She said, ‘Yes, I’ll be back again
Before the sun is set.’
But the sweetest promises often made
Are the easiest to forget,
Whate’er the grief and fret.

The moon, now silvering the east,
One shadow casts — my own.
Said I, ’I Lone soul, how often we
Have shared this solitude, and see,
Midnight will soon draw on,
When the last flower of hope is fallen,
And silence haunts heart’s vacancy,
And even pining’s gone.'