 | Poems by a Painter |  |
95
DIRGE.
In mine ear a death-bell ringeth,
And a sad voice ever singeth:
Time is speeding on his way;
Night treads on the skirts of day;
All things hasten to decay;
Old years revive not; glory cannot shed
Sunshine around the heart when golden youth is fled.
And a sad voice ever singeth:
Time is speeding on his way;
Night treads on the skirts of day;
All things hasten to decay;
Old years revive not; glory cannot shed
Sunshine around the heart when golden youth is fled.
The Past is dead. The Present dies
In birth. The faithless Future flies
Us ever: as in dreams we see
Some bright-robed, beauteous phantom flee,
Yet court pursuit—till suddenly
In some lone spot she turns, and we unfold
A crumbling corpse obscene, or night-hag grisly old.
In birth. The faithless Future flies
Us ever: as in dreams we see
Some bright-robed, beauteous phantom flee,
Yet court pursuit—till suddenly
In some lone spot she turns, and we unfold
A crumbling corpse obscene, or night-hag grisly old.
| Poems by a Painter | |