ALL these hours she sits and counts, As they pass her slow and sad, Are the headsmen cutting off Every flower of hope she had; And the feet that come and go In the darkness past her door, If they trod upon her heart, Could not pain it any more. Friends hastening now to friends, Faster as the night grows late; Through all places men can go, To all homes where women wait. Some are pressing through the wood Where the path is faint and new; Some strike out a shorter way, Across meadows wet with dew. Some, along the highway's track, Music to their footsteps keep; Some are pushing into port, From their exile on the deep. But the hope she had at eve From her wretched soul has fled; For the lamp of love she lit Has burned useless, and is dead. So the feet that come and go, In the darkness past her door, If they trod upon her heart Could not pain it any more! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SOLDIER'S TEAR by THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY THE OLD TRAMP by PIERRE JEAN DE BERANGER THE WANDERING JEW by PIERRE JEAN DE BERANGER ON H----YS FRIENDSHIP by WILLIAM BLAKE ON THE DEATH OF AN OLD TOWNSMAN by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD |