Cold ashes crumble on my hearth tonight, And howling winds plunge madly at my door; Long shadows etched in mystic silver light Stretch lazily and weirdly on the floor. I gaze upon your chair, an acolyte Who, once enriched by your mad love, is poor Since you went forth one evening from my sight And left me here alone to wait once more. But waiting is a woman's task, 'tis said, Which means that we must sit and pass each day, Pretending all the while we're unafraid While those we love pass on the gypsy way. Tonight the shrieking winds to me seem sad -- O God, sometimes I think I shall go mad. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNET: ON FAME (1) by JOHN KEATS A BALLAD OF TREES AND THE MASTER by SIDNEY LANIER FROM THE ANTIQUE (2) by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI IN MEMORIAM, A.H. by MAURICE BARING PSALM 53 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE |