THE clock ticks the slow minutes out, And the lamp listens as I write. Soon I shall close mine eyes, no doubt, And sleep and dream of us to-night. The soft glow o'er my forehead slips, Thy voice sounds in my fevered ear . . . Thy smiling name is on my lips, And on my hand thy fingers dear. I feel the charm of yesterday; Thy poor heart sobs within me now; And, in this dreaming, who shall say Whether 'tis I who write, or thou. . . . | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CASEY AT THE BAT (1) by ERNEST LAWRENCE THAYER MASKS by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH FOUR SONNETS: 4 by FRANK DAVIS ASHBURN |