by Elizabeth Akers Allen
My heart is chilled and my pulse is slow,
But often and often will memory go,
Like a blind child lost in a waste of snow,
Back to the days when I loved you so -
The beautiful long ago.
I sit here dreaming them through and through,
The blissful moments I shared with you -
The sweet, sweet days when our love was new,
When I was trustful and you were true -
Beautiful days, but few!
Blest or wretched, fettered or free,
Why should I care how your life may be,
Or whether you wander by land or sea?
I only know you are dead to me,
Ever and hopelessly.
Oh, how often at day's decline
I pushed from my window the curtaining vine,
To see from your lattice the lamp-light shine -
Type of a message that, half divine,
Flashed from your heart to mine.
Once more the starlight is silvering all;
The roses sleep by the garden wall;
The night bird warbles his madrigal,
And I hear again through the sweet air fall
The evening bugle-call.
But summers will vanish and years will wane,
And bring no light to your window pane;
Nor gracious sunshine nor patient rain
Can bring dead love back to life again:
I call up the past in vain.
My heart is heavy, my heart is old,
And that proves dross which I counted gold;
I watch no longer your curtain's fold;
The window is dark and the night is cold,
And the story forever told.
Last updated May 14, 2019