 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
551
A DARK EVENING
The night is darkening, and the tide is leaping
Upon the narrow stretch of lessening shore,
Soon to engulph it, while the mists are creeping,
And folding round behind me and before.
Upon the narrow stretch of lessening shore,
Soon to engulph it, while the mists are creeping,
And folding round behind me and before.
My world is growing small and dim and lonely,
And its brief day of brightness closing fast,
I have for comrades ghostly shadows only,
Whose voices are but echoes from the past.
And its brief day of brightness closing fast,
I have for comrades ghostly shadows only,
Whose voices are but echoes from the past.
They went before me, some in youthful pride,
In manhood some, or noble womanhood,
And none may take their places by my side,
Or make this life, as they did, full and good.
In manhood some, or noble womanhood,
And none may take their places by my side,
Or make this life, as they did, full and good.
Much love was given me, far beyond my merit;
And its fond service, and its tender touch,
And words and sweet caressings haunt my spirit—
O God, that I had only loved as much!
And its fond service, and its tender touch,
And words and sweet caressings haunt my spirit—
O God, that I had only loved as much!
'Tis not the love we get, but that we give,
Which leaves glad memories for the coming years,—
Rich after-glows of sunset, and we live,
And scarce feel any sorrow in our tears.
Which leaves glad memories for the coming years,—
Rich after-glows of sunset, and we live,
And scarce feel any sorrow in our tears.
I've lived my life; its task of work is ended,
And there is little more for me to do;
Oh that its ill done job might yet be mended!
That I could make it loving, brave, and true!
And there is little more for me to do;
Oh that its ill done job might yet be mended!
That I could make it loving, brave, and true!
There! wrap it up—I dare not look upon it,
The wretched failure! put it clean away;
Nothing can mend it, nothing will atone it,—
Bury the poor dead product of my day.
The wretched failure! put it clean away;
Nothing can mend it, nothing will atone it,—
Bury the poor dead product of my day.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |