Remembering Thee
TO-NIGHT I lie down — broken on the wheel.
I am but dust upon the finger-tips
Of reaching Time; or wine that Sorrow sips —
And each day there is less of me to steal
From Life's fast-emptying cup! To-night I feel
As a torn grave from which a spectre slips,
Or dry sea-depths wherein the last wave drips,
Or star-bereaved sky no sun can heal. ...
Yea, — I am but a sword too dull for Fame
To strike with; but a reed too poor for Song
To shake; I am a leaf which is too tame
For Fortune's gathering, — and gold too strong
With base alloy for Love to mould. ... And oh,
Remembering thee, a new despair I know!
I am but dust upon the finger-tips
Of reaching Time; or wine that Sorrow sips —
And each day there is less of me to steal
From Life's fast-emptying cup! To-night I feel
As a torn grave from which a spectre slips,
Or dry sea-depths wherein the last wave drips,
Or star-bereaved sky no sun can heal. ...
Yea, — I am but a sword too dull for Fame
To strike with; but a reed too poor for Song
To shake; I am a leaf which is too tame
For Fortune's gathering, — and gold too strong
With base alloy for Love to mould. ... And oh,
Remembering thee, a new despair I know!
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