Long Ago

When the winter wind comes sighing Like a ghost, and softly trying Door and window, and the dying Light upon the hearth burns low; How his heart, that’s old, remembers Love that faded as the embers Into ashes, or December’s Vanished snow.

And he seems to see her sitting With the tranquil firelight flitting On her face and fitful knitting, While her chair goes to and fro; As she sat once in the hours That are gone; that, like the flowers, Died, with all that youth embowers, Long ago.

Then he seems to hear her speaking, And her rocker faintly creaking, And his hand goes dimly seeking Hers that is not there, ah, no! Hers, whose memory keeps reaching From the past fond arms, beseeching Heart and soul till, past all preaching, Both o’erflow.

Oh, caresses lost that take him In his dreams and wildly wake him! Tears that blind and sighs that shake him, Is there any cure for woe?-- Answer, love, whose eyes once merried! Joy, whose cheeks and lips were cherried! You, whom long ago he buried, Long ago.