University of Virginia Library

LONG DESIRE.

SURELY the world is sad with my sick hope.
There comes no stirring in the air for Spring,
No sweep of wings nor any blossoming
Of leaf-buds, red against the grey cloud-scope.
The mocking sunlight falls athwart the slope
Of the pale flowerless fields, as if to find
Some faint flower-trace, mayhap remained behind
Of the past happy time. And I, I grope
For aye amongst the ashes of old bliss,
Seeking some unpaled spark wherewith to light
The torch of Hope, that well-nigh faded is
Within my breast, if haply from the height
Of heaven should come, on wings of memories,
Some soft-plumed angel of the old delight.