Poems (Trask)/Something Lost
SOMETHING LOST.
What is it that I miss these long drear nights, When the bleak winds against my casement blow, And o'er the grim, gaunt outline of the heights Comes down the ghostly mistiness of snow? I do not dread the wind; I'm sheltered warm; Before me roars the fire, the lamp burns clear; What is there in this cruel winter storm To mind me of that sweet, long-vanished year? When life was young, and all the world Was dear?
Backward in thought I go; the windows shriek, And down the chimney roars the frenzied blast! I hold my breath,—is it a dead voice speaks From out the sacred silence of the Past? The gate swings back and forth, I hear it grate, Its iron hinges hoarse with age and rust; How often there I've paused, to watch, and wait, The sound of feet that lie within the dust! So long ago, when I took all things bright In trust!
The mad winds bellow like the ocean waves, Through the great elm-trees just across the street: Why does the sound bring to me thoughts of graves On bleak, bare moorlands, where the cold storms beat? I lift the curtains, and peer through the gloom,— A grim, gray waste of country,—nothing more! My soul is prisoned in this mortal tomb, It chafes and frets like waves on a lee shore! Why is it that our yearnings reach so strong for what Comes nevermore?