Poems (Chitwood)/The Drunkard's Remorse
THE DRUNKARD'S REMORSE.
I know that death's river Is darksome and wide,And yet in my dreaming She steals to my sideWith footsteps so noiseless,— My beautiful bride.
Her hand on my forehead Is heavy and cold,The night dews are soft On the tresses of gold,And the white robe how icy And chilling its fold.
As a cloud floateth dark, On the fair face of night,So oft in the morning, When sunbeams are bright,She glides like a shadow, And shuts out the light.
Oh, sweetly she sleepeth, My beautiful one;It needeth no marble, No rose tree, nor stone,To point out the wreck Of the heart I've undone.
The blight of the drunkard— The curse of that woe,The wild words of sorrow, The ebb and the flowOf the hopes in her bosom, Are haunting me so.
I look on the wine cup,— 'Tis tempting and fair,— But her eyes' melting glances E'en follow me there;And the hands of remorse Close the gates of despair.
I reap but the harvest Of thorns I have sown;My bosom is haunted With wrongs I have done,—For the face is before me Whose ruin I won.