  SOMEWHERE in silent starry lands, Forlorn with cold or faint with heat, He folds his ever active hands, And rest his never-resting feet. A windless light illumes his skies; A moonless night, a sunless day, Unheeded by his careless eyes, Arise, and fade, and pass away. All day his constant thoughts recall The blissful past, forever fled; A golden light illumines all The ghostly memories of the dead. Once more adown his garden walks He moves serene from flower to flower: His wife beside him gaily talks, He listens gladly hour by hour. But when he turns to kiss the lips, Or when he thinks the form to press Of her he loves—his hope’s eclipse Renews the former bitterness. In nightly dreams his tireless wings Convey him far to where she lies Folded in slumber, while he sings Low in her ear his lullabies. He wakes—the happy dream is o’er, The slow, dull heart-ache gnaws again, Within his soul forevermore A long-enduring death of pain. With her the suns arise and set, The singing stars renew their light, Deep in her heart one wild regret Moans for his presence day and night. I well believe God loves thee still, To whatsoever planet borne; Breathing the bright auroral airs That haunt some glad eternal morn. Walking with fair, unclouded eyes Beside the slow unfailing streams, Lulled in the memories of the Past, An ever gliding dance of dreams. The ills that fret our feeble hearts, The toils in which thy life had share, The slender joys that make us glad In quiet moments snatched from care. These memories of a vanished life, Pass dim before thine altered mind, As visions of the earth and sky Come to a man whose eyes are blind. To whom the sun in cloudless light Forever shines; forever grow The flowers; the woods in beauty wave Unchanged; the constant planets glow. All night above thy peaceful head, The sky is bright with burning stars; To thee the opening morning brings No news of peace, nor sound of wars; Uncheered by friend, unvexed by foe; Down the slow tide of lapsing time Thy tranquil days in silence go. Waiting with calm, expectant eyes The hour that makes her wholly thine Secure from all the blows of Fate And all the mischiefs wrought by Time. Mrs. Downing’s, April, 1853. |
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