 | Claribel and Other Poems |  |
178
GONE
Will the dead Hours come again,
From the arms of the buried Years?
Though we call, we call in vain,
And they will not heed our tears.
Why, O why were they slain
By thy fears?
From the arms of the buried Years?
Though we call, we call in vain,
And they will not heed our tears.
Why, O why were they slain
By thy fears?
Will the dead Love e'er return,
For all thy late desire?
Can thy grief unclose Love's urn,
Or make of the ashes—fire;
Though the cinders yet may burn
Round the pyre?
For all thy late desire?
Can thy grief unclose Love's urn,
Or make of the ashes—fire;
Though the cinders yet may burn
Round the pyre?
Alas and alas for the Gone!
We mourn and we mourn in vain.
Like a ghost, or the dreamy tone
Of some long-forgotten strain,
Their memory haunts the Lone
But with pain.
We mourn and we mourn in vain.
Like a ghost, or the dreamy tone
Of some long-forgotten strain,
Their memory haunts the Lone
But with pain.
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