 | Poems |  |
231
[Half unbelieving doth my heart remain]
Half unbelieving doth my heart remain
Of its great woe;
I waken, and a dull dead sense of pain
Is all I know.
Of its great woe;
I waken, and a dull dead sense of pain
Is all I know.
Then dimly in the darkness of my mind
I feel about,
To know what 'tis that troubles me, and find
My sorrow out,
I feel about,
To know what 'tis that troubles me, and find
My sorrow out,
And hardly with long pains my heart I bring
Its loss to own:
Still seems it so impossible a thing
That thou art gone—
Its loss to own:
Still seems it so impossible a thing
That thou art gone—
That not in all my life I ever more
With pleasëd ear
Thy quick light feet advancing to my door
Again shall hear—
With pleasëd ear
Thy quick light feet advancing to my door
Again shall hear—
That thou not ever with inquiring looks
Or subtle talk
Shalt bring to me sweet hindrance 'mid my books
Or studious walk—
Or subtle talk
Shalt bring to me sweet hindrance 'mid my books
Or studious walk—
That, whatsoever else of good for me
In store remain,
This lieth out of hope, my child, to see
Thy face again.
In store remain,
This lieth out of hope, my child, to see
Thy face again.
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