 | Poems by William W. Story |  |
194
BETWEEN TWELVE AND ONE.
After the merry Twelve's trochaic,
Often I watch alone
The smouldering log, with its coal-mosaic
Like the antique pavement stone—
The flame-tongues licking—the sharp clock ticking
On to the solemn One.
Often I watch alone
The smouldering log, with its coal-mosaic
Like the antique pavement stone—
The flame-tongues licking—the sharp clock ticking
On to the solemn One.
The jesters are gone, the play is over,
The ghosts alone remain;
A song and a sigh together hover
Over the dreaming brain;
To visions tender my soul I surrender,
And sweet memorial pain.
The ghosts alone remain;
A song and a sigh together hover
Over the dreaming brain;
To visions tender my soul I surrender,
And sweet memorial pain.
The wine in the half-quaffed glass is gleaming—
And into the stifled air
The smoke of the blown-out candle is streaming,
And empty is every chair,—
And never, ah! never, with all our endeavor,
Will the guests again be there.
And into the stifled air
195
And empty is every chair,—
And never, ah! never, with all our endeavor,
Will the guests again be there.
Thus, when the Twelve go out and leave me,
And every voice has ceased,
I wait for the One that comes to shrive me
Like a single mournful priest,
To list to the lesson of sad confession,
By the last guest at the feast.
And every voice has ceased,
I wait for the One that comes to shrive me
Like a single mournful priest,
To list to the lesson of sad confession,
By the last guest at the feast.
Were we all wrong that round the table
Laughed with a merry heart,
And drank Life's bright wine while we were able,
Playing the gayest part—
Because with the morrow cometh sorrow,
And tears from the eyelids start?
Laughed with a merry heart,
And drank Life's bright wine while we were able,
Playing the gayest part—
Because with the morrow cometh sorrow,
And tears from the eyelids start?
| Poems by William W. Story | |