Three Sunsets and Other Poems — Faces in the Fire

The night creeps onward, sad and slow: In these red embers' dying glow The forms of Fancy come and go.

An island-farm--broad seas of corn Stirred by the wandering breath of morn-- The happy spot where I was born.

The picture fadeth in its place: Amid the glow I seem to trace The shifting semblance of a face.

'Tis now a little childish form-- Red lips for kisses pouted warm-- And elf-locks tangled in the storm.

'Tis now a grave and gentle maid, At her own beauty half afraid, Shrinking, and willing to be stayed.

Oh, Time was young, and Life was warm, When first I saw that fairy-form, Her dark hair tossing in the storm.

And fast and free these pulses played, When last I met that gentle maid-- When last her hand in mine was laid.

Those locks of jet are turned to gray, And she is strange and far away That might have been mine own to-day-- That might have been mine own, my dear, Through many and many a happy year-- That might have sat beside me here.

Ay, changeless through the changing scene, The ghostly whisper rings between, The dark refrain of 'might have been.'

The race is o'er I might have run: The deeds are past I might have done;

And sere the wreath I might have won.

Sunk is the last faint flickering blaze: The vision of departed days Is vanished even as I gaze.

The pictures, with their ruddy light, Are changed to dust and ashes white, And I am left alone with night.

_Jan.

, 1860. _