Jane Wilde

27 December 1821 – 3 February 1896


When the gloom the light appalleth
When no tear‐dew ever falleth
Downward silently
When the tired heart, from languor
Of Life’s poor unmeaning clangour,
Droopeth wearily
When the day, in its uprising,
Bringeth nought that’s worth the prizing,
And the night, all dark and lonely,
No star showeth, but clouds only
I think of thee.
Pleasures past, a ghastly vision
Words and looks but now tradition
That thought brings;
Holy Kalends of past meetings
Rise again, with quick heart‐beatings,
On spirit wings.
For a moment seems the vision
A reality Elysian
As the joy before the Fall;
While I gaze the brightness waneth,
Passeth, fadeth—what remaineth?
Ashes all!
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