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 | The poems and sonnets of Louise Chandler Moulton |  |
250
[III. Thou wilt not speak! Day after silent day]
Thou wilt not speak! Day after silent day
Thou sittest with me in this lonesome place:
The morning sunlight falls upon thy face;
Night comes, and thou and Night together stay,—
No sunshine warms thee, and no storms dismay.
I stretch my empty arms for thine embrace
Thou glidest from them with elusive grace:
Thine unresponsive lips will never say
Thou sittest with me in this lonesome place:
The morning sunlight falls upon thy face;
Night comes, and thou and Night together stay,—
No sunshine warms thee, and no storms dismay.
I stretch my empty arms for thine embrace
Thou glidest from them with elusive grace:
Thine unresponsive lips will never say
The thing I long to hear; yet do I think,
From me to thee, the living to the dead,
Waiting together on the hither brink
Of Death's great middle sea, some influence shed
Must make thee know how now I hold thee dear,
Who loved thee not enough that other year.
From me to thee, the living to the dead,
Waiting together on the hither brink
Of Death's great middle sea, some influence shed
Must make thee know how now I hold thee dear,
Who loved thee not enough that other year.
| The poems and sonnets of Louise Chandler Moulton | |