Poems (Trask)/Something Lost

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4479358Poems — Something LostClara Augusta Jones Trask

SOMETHING LOST.
What is it that I miss these long drear nights,
When the bleak winds against my casement blow,
And o'er the grim, gaunt outline of the heights
Comes down the ghostly mistiness of snow?
I do not dread the wind; I'm sheltered warm;
Before me roars the fire, the lamp burns clear;
What is there in this cruel winter storm
To mind me of that sweet, long-vanished year?
When life was young, and all the world
    Was dear?

Backward in thought I go; the windows shriek,
And down the chimney roars the frenzied blast!
I hold my breath,—is it a dead voice speaks
From out the sacred silence of the Past?
The gate swings back and forth, I hear it grate,
Its iron hinges hoarse with age and rust;
How often there I've paused, to watch, and wait,
The sound of feet that lie within the dust!
So long ago, when I took all things bright
    In trust!

The mad winds bellow like the ocean waves,
Through the great elm-trees just across the street:
Why does the sound bring to me thoughts of graves
On bleak, bare moorlands, where the cold storms beat?
I lift the curtains, and peer through the gloom,—
A grim, gray waste of country,—nothing more!
My soul is prisoned in this mortal tomb,
It chafes and frets like waves on a lee shore!
Why is it that our yearnings reach so strong for what
    Comes nevermore?