 | Poems |  |
124
SOLITUDE.
This narrow room—this narrow room,
Sad image of a future doom;
Silence, where all around is loud,
And loneliness amid a crowd.
On the free mountain could I stand,
Nor mark one trace of human hand,
Or steer my bark, where none might be,
Save mine old playmates of the Sea,
The winds and waves—'twould ne'er impress
This sense of utter loneliness.
Sad image of a future doom;
Silence, where all around is loud,
And loneliness amid a crowd.
On the free mountain could I stand,
Nor mark one trace of human hand,
Or steer my bark, where none might be,
Save mine old playmates of the Sea,
The winds and waves—'twould ne'er impress
This sense of utter loneliness.
And here I sit, day after day,
To watch the weary time away.
The minutes pass—how slow they creep!
The hours—how heavily they sleep!
And yet, when all at last are gone,
It seems that scarce an hour has flown.
To watch the weary time away.
The minutes pass—how slow they creep!
The hours—how heavily they sleep!
125
It seems that scarce an hour has flown.
Like one in dungeon drear confined,
On the dull dial of whose mind,
Time's shadow leaves no trace behind—
Thus o'er my soul each heavy day,
So weary in its long delay—
Each lingering hour, whose sullen strife
Seemed lengthened into half a life,
So dimmed with doubt—so chilled with care,—
Have passed—nor left a record there.
On the dull dial of whose mind,
Time's shadow leaves no trace behind—
Thus o'er my soul each heavy day,
So weary in its long delay—
Each lingering hour, whose sullen strife
Seemed lengthened into half a life,
So dimmed with doubt—so chilled with care,—
Have passed—nor left a record there.
And thus, perchance, for many a year,
Day after day will find me here;
Still toiling in this narrow lot,
Unloved—uncared for—and forgot:
Without one hope of peace at last,
Or one sweet memory of the past.
Day after day will find me here;
Still toiling in this narrow lot,
Unloved—uncared for—and forgot:
Without one hope of peace at last,
Or one sweet memory of the past.
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