Through seas of pain and surging storms of grief, O sweetheart, we pursue our weary way, Waiting till on life's hill-tops the new day Shines, gilding every blossom, every leaf. O comforter of mine, of helpers chief, More patient at love's mournful long delay Than I,—less angered at the cloud-wreaths grey,— Speak words of hope: the sails of dawn unreef! Lo! I am weary; weary unto death. Long is the struggle, and the night is long: Not yet upon the hills the morning's song Broods, nor the sweetness of the morning's breath. Still am I battling 'mid the tides of night: O sweet star-lady, grant me thy starlight! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MY LADY'S PLEASURE by ROBERT GRAHAM TO THE SOUR READER by ROBERT HERRICK THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD by THEODORE O'HARA THE COLD WAVE OF 32 B.C. by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS A SLUMBER SONG by A. HOLCOMBE AIKEN A STIRRUP-CUP by DOUGLAS AINSLIE ON LINCOLN'S BIRTHDAY by JOHN KENDRICK BANGS FRAGMENTS INTENDED FOR DEATH'S JEST-BOOK: DAY OF SURPASSING BEAUTY by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |