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 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
III.
What thing may be to come I cannot know.
Her eyes have less of Hell in them, meanwhile;
At times she almost smiles a ghastly smile,
I have in all things done her bidding so.
Chill are the rooms wherein no bright fires glow,
Where no fair picture doth the eye beguile;
Once awful laughter shook the gloomy pile;
Unholy, riotous shapes went to and fro.
Her eyes have less of Hell in them, meanwhile;
At times she almost smiles a ghastly smile,
I have in all things done her bidding so.
Chill are the rooms wherein no bright fires glow,
Where no fair picture doth the eye beguile;
Once awful laughter shook the gloomy pile;
Unholy, riotous shapes went to and fro.
There is no sound, now, in the house at all,
Only outside the wind moans on, alway:
My Lady Sorrow hath no word to say,
Seems half content; for well she knows her thrall
Shall not escape from her; that should God call
She would rise with him at the Judgment Day.
Only outside the wind moans on, alway:
My Lady Sorrow hath no word to say,
Seems half content; for well she knows her thrall
Shall not escape from her; that should God call
She would rise with him at the Judgment Day.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |