 | Poems Old and New by Charles D. Bell |  |
REMORSE.
Haggard Remorse sits musing by the fire,
Her sad eyes turn'd toward the days long past,
And in them burn an unfulfill'd desire,
Bitter and wild regrets, and yearnings vast.
Her sad eyes turn'd toward the days long past,
And in them burn an unfulfill'd desire,
Bitter and wild regrets, and yearnings vast.
Dim shadowy phantoms people all the room,
Amongst them friends long vanish'd from the scene,
Who come from out the dark encircling gloom,
And speak of happy times that once had been.
Amongst them friends long vanish'd from the scene,
Who come from out the dark encircling gloom,
And speak of happy times that once had been.
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Things long forgotten rise up from the dead,
And haunting mem'ries bitter as the rue,
Words she has spoken that she wish'd unsaid,
And acts that if she could she would undo.
And haunting mem'ries bitter as the rue,
Words she has spoken that she wish'd unsaid,
And acts that if she could she would undo.
Before her pass the years of sweet delight,
And in her ears ring silver songs and mirth,
While as the old days rise again to sight,
She for the first time feels how bless'd was earth.
And in her ears ring silver songs and mirth,
While as the old days rise again to sight,
She for the first time feels how bless'd was earth.
Now as she thinks of all the golden hours,
Her hand she presses to her aching head;
The air grows faint as if with scent of flow'rs
That wither on the coffin of the dead.—
Her hand she presses to her aching head;
The air grows faint as if with scent of flow'rs
That wither on the coffin of the dead.—
She sees it now but sees it all too late;
No resurrection for the life once o'er,—
Against such hope is ever closed the gate,
The stone can ne'er be roll'd from that tomb's door.—
No resurrection for the life once o'er,—
Against such hope is ever closed the gate,
The stone can ne'er be roll'd from that tomb's door.—
Blessings were hers not reckon'd at their worth,
Or lightly taken as they daily came,
And this remembrance bows her head to earth,
Touches her haggard cheek with burning flame.
Or lightly taken as they daily came,
And this remembrance bows her head to earth,
Touches her haggard cheek with burning flame.
And as she thinks of years beyond recall,
With all that might have been but cannot be,
Adown her wasted face the hot tears fall,
And still she cries,—“Ah, woe is me! Ah me!”
With all that might have been but cannot be,
Adown her wasted face the hot tears fall,
And still she cries,—“Ah, woe is me! Ah me!”
| Poems Old and New by Charles D. Bell | |