 | The poems of Trumbull Stickney |  |
189
[XXII
If tho' alone I scarce do sigh]
If tho' alone I scarce do sigh
Because thy spirit stayeth by,
Think what it were if thou wert near,
If thou wert here.
Because thy spirit stayeth by,
Think what it were if thou wert near,
If thou wert here.
Within the sweet-aired mountain town
So far, so strange, so all our own,—
Why makest thou so long delay
So far away?
So far, so strange, so all our own,—
Why makest thou so long delay
So far away?
The waters tumbling make a sound
Of all our joys that fall to ground;
The stars shine to the uttermost
Of what we lost.
Of all our joys that fall to ground;
The stars shine to the uttermost
Of what we lost.
If some one only happy be
For this our narrowed destiny!
If some one draw a gladder breath
Out of our death.
For this our narrowed destiny!
If some one draw a gladder breath
Out of our death.
| The poems of Trumbull Stickney | |