 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
November, 18—
What is it ails me now? I hardly have written a line
For days and weeks and months in this private record of mine.
I seemed to have nothing to say, and I did not seem to care,
And the days have gone wearily by, though there was not a cloud in the air.
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And surely a fulness of life from a fulness of love should grow,
For love is summer, when all should be a-blooming and singing;
Yet none of the old things now the old sweet bliss are bringing.
I go a-dreaming and weary, every day and all;
Something is aching within me, I fret at the simplest call
Of commonplace duty that once I went about, cheerful and gay,
Tripping and singing, light-hearted, all through the hours of the day.
Everything burdens me now; and I could cry at a kiss
From the dear lips that I love so: What is the meaning of this?
I am not unhappy; at least, I have nothing to make me: and yet
My gladness is broken and dashed, and comes by the mood and the fit:
I weep when I'm left alone; and when he comes home, there are tears
That mix with the smile of my greeting, and fill him with fond, loving fears.
I want to be cheerful and happy, I want to be busy and good,
Yet I louge through the day, doing nothing, and plain like the dove in the wood.
What can it be? And my ring, too, will slip to my finger-tip,
And it gives me a catch in the throat, and a pain, and a quivering lip:
I know it is silly, and yet I cannot get rid of the fear
That his love may grow loose as my ring, and be lost while I think it is here.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |