SOMETHING LOST.
What is it that I miss these long drear nights,
When the bleak winds against my casement blow,
And o'er the grim, gaunt outline of the heights
Comes down the ghostly mistiness of snow?
I do not dread the wind; I'm sheltered warm;
Before me roars the fire, the lamp burns clear;
What is there in this cruel winter storm
To mind me of that sweet, long-vanished year?
When life was young, and all the world
Was dear?
When the bleak winds against my casement blow,
And o'er the grim, gaunt outline of the heights
Comes down the ghostly mistiness of snow?
I do not dread the wind; I'm sheltered warm;
Before me roars the fire, the lamp burns clear;
What is there in this cruel winter storm
To mind me of that sweet, long-vanished year?
When life was young, and all the world
Was dear?
Backward in thought I go; the windows shriek,
And down the chimney roars the frenzied blast!
I hold my breath,—is it a dead voice speaks
From out the sacred silence of the Past?
The gate swings back and forth, I hear it grate,
Its iron hinges hoarse with age and rust;
How often there I've paused, to watch, and wait,
The sound of feet that lie within the dust!
So long ago, when I took all things bright
In trust!
And down the chimney roars the frenzied blast!
I hold my breath,—is it a dead voice speaks
From out the sacred silence of the Past?
The gate swings back and forth, I hear it grate,
Its iron hinges hoarse with age and rust;
How often there I've paused, to watch, and wait,
The sound of feet that lie within the dust!
So long ago, when I took all things bright
In trust!
The mad winds bellow like the ocean waves,
Through the great elm-trees just across the street:
Why does the sound bring to me thoughts of graves
On bleak, bare moorlands, where the cold storms beat?
I lift the curtains, and peer through the gloom,—
A grim, gray waste of country,—nothing more!
My soul is prisoned in this mortal tomb,
It chafes and frets like waves on a lee shore!
Why is it that our yearnings reach so strong for what
Comes nevermore?
Through the great elm-trees just across the street:
Why does the sound bring to me thoughts of graves
On bleak, bare moorlands, where the cold storms beat?
I lift the curtains, and peer through the gloom,—
A grim, gray waste of country,—nothing more!
My soul is prisoned in this mortal tomb,
It chafes and frets like waves on a lee shore!
Why is it that our yearnings reach so strong for what
Comes nevermore?