A poet's love.
181
When life grows dim to my weary eye,
When joy departeth, and sorrow is nigh,
Who, 'neath the track of the stars, save thee,
Speaketh or singeth of hope to me?
When joy departeth, and sorrow is nigh,
Who, 'neath the track of the stars, save thee,
Speaketh or singeth of hope to me?
There comes a time when the morn shall rise,
Yet charm no smile to thy filmed eyes.
There comes a time when thou liest low
With the roses dead on thy frozen brow,
With a pall hung over thy tranced rest,
And the pulse asleep in thy silent breast.
There shall come a dirge through the valleys drear,
And a white-robed priest to thine icy bier.
His lips are cold, but his dim eyes weep,
And he maketh thy grave where the snow falls deep.
Woe is me, when I watch and pray
For the lightest sound of thy coming foot,
For the softest note of thy summer lay,
For the faintest chord of thy vine-strung lute!
Woe is me, when the storms sweep by;
And the mocking winds are my sole reply!
Yet charm no smile to thy filmed eyes.
There comes a time when thou liest low
With the roses dead on thy frozen brow,
With a pall hung over thy tranced rest,
And the pulse asleep in thy silent breast.
There shall come a dirge through the valleys drear,
And a white-robed priest to thine icy bier.
His lips are cold, but his dim eyes weep,
And he maketh thy grave where the snow falls deep.
Woe is me, when I watch and pray
For the lightest sound of thy coming foot,
For the softest note of thy summer lay,
For the faintest chord of thy vine-strung lute!
Woe is me, when the storms sweep by;
And the mocking winds are my sole reply!
