IN the midmost glee of the Christmas And the mirth of the glad New Year, A guest has turned from the revel, And we sit in silence here. The band chimes on, yet we listen Not to the air's refrain, But over it ever we strive to catch The sound of his voice again -- For the sound of his voice was music, Dearer than any note Shook from the strands of harp-strings, Or poured from the bugle's throat. -- A voice of such various ranges, His utterance rang from the height Of every rapture, down to the sobs Of every lost delight. Though he knew Man's force and his purpose, As strong as his strongest peers, He knew, as well, the kindly heart, And the tenderness of tears. So is it the face we remember Shall be always as a child's That, grieved some way to the very soul, Looks bravely up and smiles. O brave it shall look, as it looked its last On the little daughter's face -- Pictured only -- against the wall, In its old accustomed place -- Where the last gleam of the lamplight Out of the midnight dim Yielded its grace, and the earliest dawn Gave it again to him. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE ENGLISH GRAVEYARD IN MALACCA by KAREN SWENSON EPILOGUE TO DRAMATIS PERSONAE by ROBERT BROWNING A CONSERVATIVE by CHARLOTTE PERKINS STETSON GILMAN ST. ISAAC'S CHURCH, PETROGRAD by CLAUDE MCKAY SING-SONG; A NURSERY RHYME BOOK: 114 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI BALLADE OF A TRAVELLER'S JINX by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS WHY DID YOU DEPART AT DUSK? by CLARISSA M. BAILEY |