by Joseph Ignatius Constantine Clarke
As under the spell of the sunset skies
We ask, Shall the morrow be fair?
So ever I ask of thy gracious eyes
If the promise of love is there.
Ah me! we know not, tho rose and gold
Drape the outer halls of the night,
But dead gray clouds by the storm-wind rolled
Shall curtain the morning's light.
And doubt and fear of my soul are part,
Tho shine thine eyes so fair;
Oh, would I could say to my yearning heart
That the promise of love is there.
Last updated June 03, 2017