 | The poems and sonnets of Louise Chandler Moulton |  |
461
ONCE MORE.
Once more the Morning mocks me with its scorn,
The Sun derides me with its radiant face,
Since you vouchsafe no word from your far place,
And, lacking you, there is no joy of morn.
Did you but speak, my heart would be new-born,
And I—alive again, through that dear grace
Of love, that scoffs at time and conquers space—
Could laugh at those who call my fate forlorn.
The Sun derides me with its radiant face,
Since you vouchsafe no word from your far place,
And, lacking you, there is no joy of morn.
Did you but speak, my heart would be new-born,
And I—alive again, through that dear grace
Of love, that scoffs at time and conquers space—
Could laugh at those who call my fate forlorn.
Why are you silent? Does your heart forget,
In the proud affluence of joys untold,
Old ways, old words that I remember yet
And treasure, as a miser counts his gold?
Is it that your far ear I cannot reach—
Or am I, earth-enslaved, deaf to Heaven's speech?
In the proud affluence of joys untold,
Old ways, old words that I remember yet
And treasure, as a miser counts his gold?
Is it that your far ear I cannot reach—
Or am I, earth-enslaved, deaf to Heaven's speech?
| The poems and sonnets of Louise Chandler Moulton | |