Poems (Terry, 1861)/Gone

by Rose Terry Cooke

For works with similar titles, see Gone.

GONE.

A silent, odor-laden air,
 From heavy branches dropping balm;
A crowd of daisies milky fair,
 That sunward turn their faces calm.
So rapt, a bird alone may dare
 To stir their rapture with his psalm.

So falls the perfect day of June
 To moonlit eve, from dewy dawn,
With light winds rustling through the noon,
 And conscious roses half withdrawn,
In blushing buds that wake too soon,
 To flaunt their hearts on every lawn.

The wide content of summer's bloom,
 The peaceful glory of its prime;
Yet over all a brooding gloom,
 A desolation born of time;
As distant storm-caps tower and loom,
 And shroud the sun with heights sublime.

For they are vanished from the trees,
 And vanished from the thronging flowers,
Whose tender tones thrilled every breeze
 And sped with mirth the flying hours.
No form nor shape my sad eye sees;
 No faithful spirit haunts these bowers.

Alone, alone, in sun or dew!
 One fled to heaven, of earth afraid;
And one to earth, with eyes untrue
 And lips of faltering passion strayed.
Nor shall the strenuous years renew
 On any bough these leaves that fade.

Long summer-days shall come and go—
 No Summer brings the dead again.
I listen for that voice's flow
 And ache at heart with deepening pain.
And one fair face no more I know,
 Still living sweet, but sweet in vain.