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LOST LIGHT.
O, how often at day's decline,
I pushed from my window the curtaining vine,
To see from your lattice the lamplight shine,—
Type of a message that, half divine,
Flashed from your heart to mine.
I pushed from my window the curtaining vine,
To see from your lattice the lamplight shine,—
Type of a message that, half divine,
Flashed from your heart to mine.
Once more the starlight is silvering all;
The roses sleep by the garden wall,
The night-bird warbles his madrigal,
And I hear again through the sweet air fall
The evening bugle-call.
The roses sleep by the garden wall,
The night-bird warbles his madrigal,
And I hear again through the sweet air fall
The evening bugle-call.
But summers will vanish and years will wane,
And bring no light to your window-pane;
Nor gracious sunshine nor patient rain,
Can bring dead love back to life again:
I call up the past in vain.
And bring no light to your window-pane;
Nor gracious sunshine nor patient rain,
Can bring dead love back to life again:
I call up the past in vain.
My heart is heavy, my heart is old,
And that proves dross which I counted gold;
I watch no longer your curtain's fold,
The window is dark and the night is cold,
And the story forever told.
And that proves dross which I counted gold;
I watch no longer your curtain's fold,
The window is dark and the night is cold,
And the story forever told.
