V. I SOMETIMES hold it half a sin To put in words the grief I feel; For words, like nature, half reveal And half conceal the Soul within. But, for the unquiet heart and brain, In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold; But that large grief which these infold Is given in outline and no more. VI. ONE writes, that " Other friends remain," That "Loss is common to the race," And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain. That loss is common would not make O father, wheresoe'er thou be, That pledgest now thy gallant son; A shot, ere half thy draught be done, Hath stilled the life that beat from thee. O mother, praying God will save Thy sailor, while thy head is bowed, Drops in his vast and wandering grave. Ye know no more than I who wrought Expecting still his advent home; And ever met him on his way With wishes, thinking, here to-day, Or here to-morrow will he come. O, somewhere, meek unconscious dove, Poor child, that waitest for thy love! For now her father's chimney glows In expectation of a guest; And thinking "this will please him best," She takes a ribbon or a rose ; For he will see them on to-night; And with the thought her color burns; Once more to set a ringlet right; And, even when she turned, the curse Was drowned in passing through the ford, Or killed in falling from his horse. O, what to her shall be the end? And what to me remains of good? To her, perpetual maidenhood, And unto me, no second friend. VII. DARK house, by which once more I stand Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasped no more, Behold me, for I cannot sleep, And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door. He is not here; but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly through the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day. 7 |