MY friend, he spoke of a woman's face; It puzzled me, and I paused to think. He told of her eyes and mouth, the trace Of prayer on her brow, and quick as wink I said: "Oh yes, but you wrong her years. She's only a child, with faith and fears That childhood fit. I tell thee nay; She was a girl just yesterday." "The years are swift and sure, I trow," (Quoth he). "You speak of the long ago." Once I strolled in a garden spot, And every flower upraised a head (So it seemed), for they, I wot, Were mates of mine; each bloom and bed, Their hours for sleep, their merry mood, The lives and deaths of the whole sweet brood, Were known to me; it was my way To visit them but yesterday. Spake one red rose, in a language low: "We saw you last in the long ago." Entering under the lintel wide, I saw the room; it was all the same: The oaken press and the shelves aside, The window small for the sunset flame, The book I loved on the table large; I opened: lo! in the yellow marge The leaf I placed was shrunk and gray. I swear it was green but yesterday. Then a voice stole out of the sunset glow: "You lived here, man, in the long ago." 'Tis the same old tale, though it comes to me By a hundred paths of pain and glee, Till I guess the truth at last, and know That Yesterday is the Long Ago. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ECSTASY by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON A PROBLEM IN AESTHETICS by KAREN SWENSON LIGHT [AND LOVE] by FRANCIS WILLIAM BOURDILLON ALEXANDER CRUMMELL - DEAD by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR CANE: NOVEMBER COTTON FLOWER by JEAN TOOMER |