 | The silver bridge and other poems |  |
67
INCONSTANCY.
Against the curtained pane, beloved,
The snow beats thick and fast;
The wild wind's sorrowing refrain
Is telling of the past;
And in the old familiar chair,
Beside the hearth-fire's glow,
I sit and sing the tender air
You loved so long ago.
The snow beats thick and fast;
The wild wind's sorrowing refrain
Is telling of the past;
And in the old familiar chair,
Beside the hearth-fire's glow,
I sit and sing the tender air
You loved so long ago.
Ah, often since the springs, beloved,
Have bloomed above your rest,
I breathe the sweet old song that sings
Itself within my breast—
As children, in the cheerless days
When winter darkly lowers,
Retrace the garden's sodden ways,
And talk of last year's flowers.
Have bloomed above your rest,
I breathe the sweet old song that sings
Itself within my breast—
As children, in the cheerless days
When winter darkly lowers,
Retrace the garden's sodden ways,
And talk of last year's flowers.
It never seemed to you, beloved,
When we walked hand in hand,
Amid the sunshine and the dew
Of youth's enchanted land—
It never seemed to you or me
That I could sing or smile
If you were lying silently
Within your grave the while.
When we walked hand in hand,
68
Of youth's enchanted land—
It never seemed to you or me
That I could sing or smile
If you were lying silently
Within your grave the while.
We thought we could not live, beloved,
If we were torn apart—
That earth would have no more to give
To either stricken heart;
Alas, the change that time has wrought!
Your grave has held you long,
And in a home where you are not,
I sing the dear old song!
If we were torn apart—
That earth would have no more to give
To either stricken heart;
Alas, the change that time has wrought!
Your grave has held you long,
And in a home where you are not,
I sing the dear old song!
Do you look back to me, beloved,
From out your happy sphere,
And deem me false, that I can be
Alive, and you not here?
Death does not always bring its balm
To every aching ill—
Life may outlast its dearest charm,
And heart-break does not kill.
From out your happy sphere,
And deem me false, that I can be
Alive, and you not here?
Death does not always bring its balm
To every aching ill—
Life may outlast its dearest charm,
And heart-break does not kill.
It would have been the same, beloved,
Had I been first to die;
Another love had worn your name,
More dear, perchance, than I;
Ah, after all these weary years,
Would you more constant be?
And would you drop these bitter tears,
And sing the song for me?
Had I been first to die;
69
More dear, perchance, than I;
Ah, after all these weary years,
Would you more constant be?
And would you drop these bitter tears,
And sing the song for me?
| The silver bridge and other poems | |