Poems (Chitwood)/The Drunkard's Remorse
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THE DRUNKARD'S REMORSE.
I know that death's river
Is darksome and wide,
And yet in my dreaming
She steals to my side
With footsteps so noiseless,—
My beautiful bride.
Is darksome and wide,
And yet in my dreaming
She steals to my side
With 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.
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.
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.
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 flow
Of the hopes in her bosom,
Are haunting me so.
The curse of that woe,
The wild words of sorrow,
The ebb and the flow
Of 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.
'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.
Of thorns I have sown;
My bosom is haunted
With wrongs I have done,—
For the face is before me
Whose ruin I won.