 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
ALIEN HOURS.
These days that bring no word of hope to me,
From her whose presence turns my dark life bright,
Are guests with whom one may not live aright,
Because they enter not that sanctuary
Of intimate, perfect, dearest secrecy,
As friends to whom one speaks without affright
Of Love, and Love's immaculate delight,
Knowing their heart's unuttered sympathy.
From her whose presence turns my dark life bright,
Are guests with whom one may not live aright,
Because they enter not that sanctuary
Of intimate, perfect, dearest secrecy,
As friends to whom one speaks without affright
Of Love, and Love's immaculate delight,
Knowing their heart's unuttered sympathy.
These days— though fair enough, with Summer's soul
Reflected in their eyes, and in their tone
The deep sea's chime —are yet to me unknown.
Depart from me, —your goal is not my goal!
Come that dear day, to make my spirit whole,
Which brings me word of her, my queen, my own!
Reflected in their eyes, and in their tone
The deep sea's chime —are yet to me unknown.
Depart from me, —your goal is not my goal!
Come that dear day, to make my spirit whole,
Which brings me word of her, my queen, my own!
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |