McClure's Magazine/Volume 32/Number 4/Premonition

by Wanda Petrunkevitch

So often we sit thus, long evening through,
  Spendthrift of dream and silence from a store
Of hopes and memories and love, so vast,
  No want we know, no further boon implore.

Yet sometimes while in firelight revery
  We draw to-morrow's strength from love at rest,
All suddenly I dream thy face grows pale,
  Remote as of some strange, celestial guest:

Then to my boding heart Fear breathes; mark well
  This friendly hour, this dear, familiar place,
For change will be: guard lest thy loneliness
  Lack even remembrance of Joy's passing grace.