HE is gone with his blue eyes, Whom I love most,-- Gone among the cliffs and fog On a far coast,-- He who scatters wit and pride From his keen tongue, He who finds himself so deep And is so young;-- He whose joy is in sweet words And kindliness,-- Whom old men love, and little boys No whit the less. . . . Rooms are silent that were glad Seven days ago. I can feel across my heart The great tides flow. Love, the blind importunate, Craves touch and sight; Briefly parting, feels and fears Eternal night. Fear is sweeping on the wind Like acrid foam. I have said farewell to peace Till he comes home.-Isabella Holt
Posted on: Sat, 28 Sep 2013 08:52:17 +0000
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