 | Le Cahier Jaune |  |
74
TOO LATE.
Eastward the morning cometh in apace
Over the gray hills and the falling streams,
Yet may not break the silence of her dreams,
Nor flash a waking glory on her face;
Call to her; she is silent in her place,
And may not answer; how the sweet mouth seems
To smile, as though she recked of kindlier gleams
About her, and were dumb for very grace!
Over the gray hills and the falling streams,
Yet may not break the silence of her dreams,
Nor flash a waking glory on her face;
Call to her; she is silent in her place,
And may not answer; how the sweet mouth seems
To smile, as though she recked of kindlier gleams
About her, and were dumb for very grace!
The lilies hearing bow themselves for fear,
The red light, beating strong with crimson glow,
Shudders to feel him pass, whom bolts and bars,
Stay not nor hinder, neither threat nor tear;—
Can ye put back by any prayers ye know
The march of the invariable stars?
The red light, beating strong with crimson glow,
Shudders to feel him pass, whom bolts and bars,
Stay not nor hinder, neither threat nor tear;—
Can ye put back by any prayers ye know
The march of the invariable stars?
Lambeth, 1884.
| Le Cahier Jaune | |