 | Orchids |  |
51
HOPE
Somewhere, some day—I pray the day be soon!—Shall I lie dead, perchance when this green floor
Of chequered grass beneath the sycamore
Is burnt up by the fierce September noon:
Some midnight when the sea's wan waters croon
Their lullaby to the enchanted shore,—
An ebb-tide with its vague and muffled roar
Past where the wet sands glisten to the moon.
Then shalt thou gain at length thy great desire,
O heart of mine, O heart of tears and fire!
Thy life is troublous as the changing foam.
Then shalt thou lie at peace and solemn rest,
Calm in the attainment of thy life's long quest,
The haven of thy wish, thine only home.
| Orchids | |