 | The Poetical Works of John Payne
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LONG DESIRE.
SURELY the world is sad with my sick hope.
There comes no stirring in the air for Spring,
No sweep of wings nor any blossoming
Of leaf-buds, red against the grey cloud-scope.
The mocking sunlight falls athwart the slope
Of the pale flowerless fields, as if to find
Some faint flower-trace, mayhap remained behind
Of the past happy time. And I, I grope
For aye amongst the ashes of old bliss,
Seeking some unpaled spark wherewith to light
The torch of Hope, that well-nigh faded is
Within my breast, if haply from the height
Of heaven should come, on wings of memories,
Some soft-plumed angel of the old delight.
| The Poetical Works of John Payne
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