 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
376
I THOUGHT THAT I WAS HAPPY YESTERDAY.
I thought that I was happy yesterday;
For, though apart, we stood soul close to soul,
So joined by infinite Love's supreme control
That happy spring danced with us on our way;
But now the brooding sky has turned to gray,
And heavily the clouds across it roll:
Oh, to what awful, unconjectured goal
Are our feet tending, — my beloved one, say?
For, though apart, we stood soul close to soul,
So joined by infinite Love's supreme control
That happy spring danced with us on our way;
But now the brooding sky has turned to gray,
And heavily the clouds across it roll:
Oh, to what awful, unconjectured goal
Are our feet tending, — my beloved one, say?
I dare not speak, — dare hardly think of Love:
I am as one who not being dead yet hears
A sound of lamentation round his bed,
Feels falling on his face his friends' hot tears;
And, though he struggles inly, cannot move,
Or say one word to prove he is not dead.
I am as one who not being dead yet hears
A sound of lamentation round his bed,
Feels falling on his face his friends' hot tears;
And, though he struggles inly, cannot move,
Or say one word to prove he is not dead.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |