At Sunset.
98
Surely the green pastures, Emily,
Of which the old Psalmist tells
Had just this same vivid verdure
And just these same clover-sweet smells.
Of which the old Psalmist tells
Had just this same vivid verdure
And just these same clover-sweet smells.
Surely his dream of still waters
Was like this reed-fringed lagoon
That lies 'mid the shadows, awaiting
The first silver shafts of the moon.
Was like this reed-fringed lagoon
That lies 'mid the shadows, awaiting
The first silver shafts of the moon.
And seeing the beauty, Emily,
And knowing the world so fair,
It seems like an evil vision—
The real hard world of care.
And knowing the world so fair,
It seems like an evil vision—
The real hard world of care.
The real hard world of sorrow,
The merciless flight of the years,
Lit by the flame of passion,
Quenched by the dew of tears.
The merciless flight of the years,
Lit by the flame of passion,
Quenched by the dew of tears.
Memory's arrows are blunted,
They lose their power to sting,
Regret, like a brooding night-bird,
Folds up her sombre wing.
They lose their power to sting,
Regret, like a brooding night-bird,
Folds up her sombre wing.
