The glad day, the joyous: what was -- when there was love and not love's echo: -- those day are gone, Edward. O the ill season! the thought going forth, the image haunting this house, before without danger! O ill day, the truth hidden, the reality concealed, this day the dream made reality: before, there was peace, and in our dwelling no ill that day, nor hell's reverberation. And nothing here, Edward -- only the ghost-haunted room, the shell, empty, the memory and Vivian not here (Sound for a token now, and the house trembles ...) Edward! Edward! the night fallen. What will not come again is best forgotten; better lie down at the end of days, lie down forgetting, under roofs or the lilac than be sad, remembering without reason. Better to walk in the free air, and be forsaken; better to fret in the night, hearing the night's answer than to remain here -- here, where the house tightens: The purpose shining, the beautiful that lights all things knowing not its own purpose: we are such people, born out of hand: and we must be abroad and seeking although it be late; although already the light flickers. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MONODY ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R.B. SHERIDAN by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE by THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS ULTIMA THULE: NIGHT by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW INTO THE TWILIGHT by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS E.W.T.: ON THE DEATH OF HIS BETTY by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |