Shifting Scenes and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Little Jane came dancing
Into the sunny room;
“And what do you think, papa?” she cried,
“I saw the father of Ellen who died,
And the men who were making her tomb!
And the father patted me on the head—
All for the sake of her who is dead—
And gave me this doll, and wept, and said
That I was my papa's pride.”
“And so you are,” with an accent wild,
Said the widower wan. “Come here, my child!”

Ah! but her locks were fair and bright,
Oh! but her eyes were full of light,
And her little feet danced in ceaseless play;—
“Always be glad, always be gay,
Sing, and romp, and never be sad,
So you will make your papa glad.”

And the little one bounded from his knee,
Lifted her doll, and screamed with glee,
As the sunlight fell on the floor;
But who is He at the open door,
Waiting, watching, evermore—
Whose semblance none may see—

Who came unbidden once before,
And hushed the harp in the corner there,
And filled one heart with the wild despair
Of the endless never more?

Stealthy his touch and stealthy his tread,
He lays his hand on her sunny head;—
And who may mention the grace that has fled,
Or paint the bloom of life that is dead?

The present rushes into the past,
Nothing on earth is doomed to last,
Summer has ended and winter is near,
Rain is steaming on moor and mere,
Dead leaves are on the blast.

The shutters are up in the empty room—
Nothing to break its hush of gloom;
Nothing but gusts of plashing rain
Beating against the window-pane,
Mingled with brine swirled up from the sea,
And thoughts of that which used to be
And cannot be, again.