Somewhere in silent starry lands,
Forlorn with cold or faint with heat,
He folds his ever active hands,
And rest his never-resting feet.
A windless light illumes his skies;
A moonless night, a sunless day,
Unheeded by his careless eyes,
Arise, and fade, and pass away.
All day his constant thoughts recall
The blissful past, forever fled;
A golden light illumines all
The ghostly memories of the dead.
Once more adown his garden walks
He moves serene from flower to flower:
His wife beside him gaily talks,
He listens gladly hour by hour.
But when he turns to kiss the lips,
Or when he thinks the form to press
Of her he loves—his hope’s eclipse
Renews the former bitterness.
In nightly dreams his tireless wings
Convey him far to where she lies
Folded in slumber, while he sings
Low in her ear his lullabies.
He wakes—the happy dream is o’er,
The slow, dull heart-ache gnaws again,
Within his soul forevermore
A long-enduring death of pain.
With her the suns arise and set,
The singing stars renew their light,
Deep in her heart one wild regret
Moans for his presence day and night.
I well believe God loves thee still,
To whatsoever planet borne;
Breathing the bright auroral airs
That haunt some glad eternal morn.
Walking with fair, unclouded eyes
Beside the slow unfailing streams,
Lulled in the memories of the Past,
An ever gliding dance of dreams.
The ills that fret our feeble hearts,
The toils in which thy life had share,
The slender joys that make us glad
In quiet moments snatched from care.
These memories of a vanished life,
Pass dim before thine altered mind,
As visions of the earth and sky
Come to a man whose eyes are blind.
To whom the sun in cloudless light
Forever shines; forever grow
The flowers; the woods in beauty wave
Unchanged; the constant planets glow.
All night above thy peaceful head,
The sky is bright with burning stars;
To thee the opening morning brings
No news of peace, nor sound of wars;
Sole tenant of thy starry home;
Uncheered by friend, unvexed by foe;
Down the slow tide of lapsing time
Thy tranquil days in silence go.
Waiting with calm, expectant eyes
The hour that makes her wholly thine
Secure from all the blows of Fate
And all the mischiefs wrought by Time.
Mrs. Downing’s, April, 1853.