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AFTER THE RAIN.
Backward in thought I go; the windows shriek,
And down the chimney roars the frenzied blast!
I hold my breath,—is it a dead voice speaks
From out the sacred silence of the Past?
The gate swings back and forth, I hear it grate,
Its iron hinges hoarse with age and rust;
How often there I've paused, to watch, and wait,
The sound of feet that lie within the dust!
So long ago, when I took all things bright
In trust!
And down the chimney roars the frenzied blast!
I hold my breath,—is it a dead voice speaks
From out the sacred silence of the Past?
The gate swings back and forth, I hear it grate,
Its iron hinges hoarse with age and rust;
How often there I've paused, to watch, and wait,
The sound of feet that lie within the dust!
So long ago, when I took all things bright
In trust!
The mad winds bellow like the ocean waves,
Through the great elm-trees just across the street:
Why does the sound bring to me thoughts of graves
On bleak, bare moorlands, where the cold storms beat?
I lift the curtains, and peer through the gloom,—
A grim, gray waste of country,—nothing more!
My soul is prisoned in this mortal tomb,
It chafes and frets like waves on a lee shore!
Why is it that our yearnings reach so strong for what
Comes nevermore?
Through the great elm-trees just across the street:
Why does the sound bring to me thoughts of graves
On bleak, bare moorlands, where the cold storms beat?
I lift the curtains, and peer through the gloom,—
A grim, gray waste of country,—nothing more!
My soul is prisoned in this mortal tomb,
It chafes and frets like waves on a lee shore!
Why is it that our yearnings reach so strong for what
Comes nevermore?
AFTER THE RAIN.
The sable clouds break into light,
To let the sunshine through;
Above the ridge of western hills
There is a belt of blue,
To let the sunshine through;
Above the ridge of western hills
There is a belt of blue,
