Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | March 11, 2009


by Henry Cuyler Bunner (1855 – 1896).


The Light


There is no shadow where my love is laid;

For (ever thus I fancy in my dream

That wakes with me and wakes my sleep), some gleam

Of sunlight, thrusting through the poplar shade,

Falls there; and even when the wind has played                         5

His requiem for the Day, one stray sunbeam,

Pale as the palest moonlight glimmers seem,

Keeps sentinel for her till starlights fade.


And I, remaining here and waiting long,

And all enfolded in my sorrow’s night,                                         10

Who not on earth again her face may see,—

For even Memory does her likeness wrong,—

Am blind and hopeless, only for this light —

This light, this light, through all the years to be.



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