W
WHEN the gloom the light appalleth—
When no tear-dew ever falleth
Downward silently—
When the tired heart, from languor
Of Life's poor unmeaning clangour,
Droopeth wearily—
When the day, in its uprising,
Bringeth nought that's worth the prizing,
And the night, all dark and lonely,
No star showeth, but clouds only—
I think of thee.