Poems of Passion/Tired

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I am tired to-night, and something,
         The wind maybe, or the rain,
Or the cry of a bird in the copse outside,
         Has brought back the past and its pain.
And I feel, as I sit here thinking,
         That the hand of a dead old June
Has reached out hold of my heart's loose strings,
         And is drawing them up in tune.

I am tired to-night, and I miss you,
         And long for you, love, through tears;
And it seems but to-day that I saw you go—
         You, who have been gone for years.
And I seem to be newly lonely—
         I, who am so much alone;
And the strings of my heart are well in tune,
         But they have not the same old tone.

I am tired; and that old sorrow
         Sweeps down the bed of my soul,
As a turbulent river might sudden'y break
         way from a dam's control.
It beareth a wreck on its bosom,
         A wreck with a snow-white sail;
And the hand on my heart strings thrums away,
         But they only respond with a wail.