Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
Marion Moore
By James Gowdy Clark (18301897)G
Gone like the bird in the autumn that singeth,
Gone like the flower by the wayside that springeth,
Gone like the leaf of the ivy that clingeth
Round the lone rock on a storm-beaten shore.
Dear as the tide in my broken heart throbbing;
Dear as the soul o’er thy memory sobbing.
Sorrow my life of its roses is robbing,
Wasting is all the glad beauty of yore.
I shall remember, alas, to regret thee;
I will regret when all others forget thee;
Deep in my breast will the hour that I met thee
Linger and burn till life’s fever is o’er.
Gone like the breeze o’er the billow that bloweth,
Gone as the rill to the ocean that floweth,
Gone as the day from the gray mountain goeth,
Darkness behind thee, but glory before.
Peace which the queens of the earth cannot borrow,
Peace from a kingdom that crowned thee with sorrow:
Oh! to be happy with thee on the morrow,
Who would not fly from this desolate shore?