T. G. D.—"Deare Childe"
The afternoon broods timelessness,
The instants are as years
While I stand musing there—
Not a hand lifted, not a sigh escaping on the air,
No hint of joy or hope or young despair—
Nor age, nor tears.
Gone back to dust—
Or infinitely on—somewhere—
All that was love and eagerness
And golden hair.
The instants are as years
While I stand musing there—
Not a hand lifted, not a sigh escaping on the air,
No hint of joy or hope or young despair—
Nor age, nor tears.
Gone back to dust—
Or infinitely on—somewhere—
All that was love and eagerness
And golden hair.
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