Poems (Howard)/Missed
Missed.
Untenanted their mansion stands, Bereft of every trace Of those whose dextrous, facile hands, Could so control unwieldy plans, And things dispose in place.
All through these Indian Summer days, Upon the terrace lie The mellow sunlight's golden rays, That flash athwart the dreamy haze Beneath the Autumn sky.
Before the portal, where no feet Disturb the leaves, all sere, We pause, and half expect to greet The loving friends we used to meet— Alas! they are not here.
We miss them ever, just the same As when they went away, And just as fondly breathe their name As neighbors gather and exclaim: "Would they were here to-day!"
In social cheer, and labor wrought We recognize the lack Of aid and sympathy, and naught Can dissipate the hopeful thought That they will yet—come back.
A thousand things suggest the sense Of our unworthiness To be the blest recipients Of love, whose sweet munificence Conferred such happiness.
O will they not forgive, wherein We may have done amiss, And place, against regretted sin, The wish we had more faithful been, And but remember this?
That, though by careless act or word Unguarded and undue, In human frailty we have erred And oft their tender anguish stirred, Our hearts were always true.
Unto that far-off home to-night Is wafted many a thought, By those directed in its flight Whom they have sought to guide aright, And who forget them not. November, 1884.