 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
Then his sister, turning slowly,
With a wistful melancholy,
As of one with listening weary,
As of one with waiting dreary,
As of one who had a pain
Lying where a joy had lain,
Said, “The sky is wild and eerie,
And I fear there will be sorrow
On the sea, and on the land
A dread of the to-morrow,
And the forms upon the sand.
I am heavy as I think;
I am dull and scarce know why;
But I feel as on the brink
Of some unknown misery.
Shall I sing? You must be weary:
And that pencil-scratch is dreary
With its monotone. I'll hum
Something just as it will come,
Something just as it is sent—
Never mind the instrument.”
With a wistful melancholy,
As of one with listening weary,
As of one with waiting dreary,
As of one who had a pain
Lying where a joy had lain,
Said, “The sky is wild and eerie,
And I fear there will be sorrow
On the sea, and on the land
A dread of the to-morrow,
And the forms upon the sand.
I am heavy as I think;
I am dull and scarce know why;
But I feel as on the brink
Of some unknown misery.
Shall I sing? You must be weary:
And that pencil-scratch is dreary
With its monotone. I'll hum
Something just as it will come,
Something just as it is sent—
Never mind the instrument.”
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |