Poems By William Bell Scott. Ballads, Studies from Nature, Sonnets, etc. Illustrated by Seventeen Etchings by the Author and L. Alma Tadema |
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 | Poems |  |
92
MORNING.
Last night,—it must have been a ghost at best,—
I did believe the lost one's slumbering head
Filled the white hollows of the curtained bed,
And happily sank again to sound sweet rest,
As in times past with sleep my nightly guest,
A guest that left me only when the day
Showed me a fairer than Euphrosyne,—
Day that now shows me but the unfilled nest.
I did believe the lost one's slumbering head
Filled the white hollows of the curtained bed,
And happily sank again to sound sweet rest,
As in times past with sleep my nightly guest,
A guest that left me only when the day
Showed me a fairer than Euphrosyne,—
Day that now shows me but the unfilled nest.
O night! thou wert our mother at the first,
Thy silent chambers are our homes at last;
And even now thou art our bath of life.
Come back! the hot sun makes our lips athirst;
Come back! thy dreams may recreate the past;
Come back! and smooth again this heart's long strife.
Thy silent chambers are our homes at last;
And even now thou art our bath of life.
Come back! the hot sun makes our lips athirst;
Come back! thy dreams may recreate the past;
Come back! and smooth again this heart's long strife.
| Poems | |