Yet soon for them the solacing tide returns
To quench their thirst of longing. Ah, not so
Works the stern law our tides of life obey!
Ebbing in the night watches swift away,
Scarce known are fled for ever is the flow;
And in parched channel still the shrunk stream mourns.
THE DESERTED CITY
There lies a little city leagues away.
Its wharves the green sea washes all day long.
Its busy, sun-bright wharves with sailors’ song
And clamour of trade ring loud the live-long day.
Into the happy harbour hastening, gay
With press of snowy canvas, tall ships throng.
The peopled streets to blithe-eyed Peace belong,
Glad housed beneath these crowding roofs of grey.
’Twas long ago this city prospered so,
For yesterday a woman died therein.
Since when the wharves are idle fallen, I know,
And in the streets is hushed the pleasant din;
The thronging ships have been, the songs have been;—
Since yesterday it is so long ago.
DARK
Now, for the night is hushed and blind with rain,
My soul desires communion, Dear, with thee.
But hour by hour my spirit gets not free,—
Hour by still hour my longing strives in vain.
The thick dark hems me, even to the restless brain.
The wind’s confusion vague encumbers me.
Even passionate memory, grown too faint to see
Thy features, stirs not in her straitening chain.
And thou, dost thou too feel this strange divorce
Of will from power? The spell of night and wind,
Baffling desire and dream, dost thou too find?
Not distance parts us, Dear; but this dim force,
Intangible, holds us helpless, hushed with pain,
Dumb with the dark, blind with the gusts of rain!
RAIN
Sharp drives the rain, sharp drives the endless rain.
The rain-winds wake and wander, lift and blow.
The slow smoke-wreaths of vapour to and fro,
Wave and unweave and gather and build again.
Over the far gray reaches of the plain,—
Grey miles on miles my passionate thought must go,—
I strain my sight, grown dim with gazing so,
Pressing my face against the streaming pane.
How the rain beats! Ah God! If love had power
To voice its utmost yearning, even tho’
Through time and bitter distance, not in vain,
Surely her heart would hear me at this hour,
Look through the years, and see! But would she know
The white face pressed against the streaming pane?