 | Poems |  |
266
ALONE.
Alone! no stir nor sound of life;
The house to day is all my own:
And where art thou, my peerless wife?
Alas, alone.
The house to day is all my own:
And where art thou, my peerless wife?
Alas, alone.
All joyous things are out among
The flowers, this April morn so fair.
And thou, whose heart was ever young,
Art where, oh where?
The flowers, this April morn so fair.
And thou, whose heart was ever young,
Art where, oh where?
A nest is in thy holly-tree,
A red-breast chants amid the leaves;
The same that used to sing to thee
On winter eves.
A red-breast chants amid the leaves;
The same that used to sing to thee
On winter eves.
The sunbeams through the casement peep
And glint along thy chamber floor;
What seek they here? thy morning sleep
They break no more.
And glint along thy chamber floor;
What seek they here? thy morning sleep
They break no more.
267
A year ago so shone the spring
Where faint my blighted love was lying;
The buds could bloom, the birds could sing,
When thou wert dying.
Where faint my blighted love was lying;
The buds could bloom, the birds could sing,
When thou wert dying.
The river on Helvellyn born
Runs, clear as at the fountain-head,
Beside my door—as on the morn
When thou wert dead.
Runs, clear as at the fountain-head,
Beside my door—as on the morn
When thou wert dead.
But with another voice it calls,
A greeting to my soul address'd,
Borne hither from the churchyard walls
That guard thy rest.
A greeting to my soul address'd,
Borne hither from the churchyard walls
That guard thy rest.
O keen intolerable sense
Of solitude in hopeless woe!
I will arise and bear me hence,
But whither go?
Of solitude in hopeless woe!
I will arise and bear me hence,
But whither go?
Ah whither but to yonder knoll,
So green beneath the dark yew-bough?
Whereof this river to my soul
Is murmuring now.
So green beneath the dark yew-bough?
Whereof this river to my soul
Is murmuring now.
268
For thou art there, and thoughts are there
That dwell not on less holy ground;
The lakeland knows no spot so fair
As that green mound.
That dwell not on less holy ground;
The lakeland knows no spot so fair
As that green mound.
There standing, where I saw or heard
The earth upon thy coffin thrown:
I feel, so near my home deferr'd,
Not all alone.
The earth upon thy coffin thrown:
I feel, so near my home deferr'd,
Not all alone.
April, 1848.
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