 | The poems and sonnets of Louise Chandler Moulton |  |
359
V.
TIME'S PRISONER.
Time was, beloved, when from this far-off place
My words could reach thee, and thine own reply—
Now thou art gone, and my heart's longing cry
Pursues thee, as some runner runs his race—
Cleaves like a bird the emptiness of space,
And falls back, baffled, from the pitiless sky.
Ah, why with thee, so dear, did I not die?
Why should I live benighted of thy face?
My words could reach thee, and thine own reply—
Now thou art gone, and my heart's longing cry
Pursues thee, as some runner runs his race—
Cleaves like a bird the emptiness of space,
And falls back, baffled, from the pitiless sky.
Ah, why with thee, so dear, did I not die?
Why should I live benighted of thy face?
Thou wilt have sped so far before I come—
How shall I ever win to where thou art?
Or, if I find thee, shall I not be dumb—
With voiceless longing break my silent heart?
Nay! Surely thou wilt read mine eyes, and know
That for thy sake all heaven I would forego.
How shall I ever win to where thou art?
Or, if I find thee, shall I not be dumb—
With voiceless longing break my silent heart?
Nay! Surely thou wilt read mine eyes, and know
That for thy sake all heaven I would forego.
| The poems and sonnets of Louise Chandler Moulton | |