Alone by the Hearth

Here, in my snug little fire-lit chamber,
Sit I alone;
And, as I gaze in the coals, I remember
Days long agone.

Saddening it is, when the night has descended,
Thus to sit here,
Pensively musing on episodes, ended
Many a year.

Still in my visions a golden-haired glory
Floats to and fro;
She whom I loved, — but 'tis just the old story,
Dead, long ago!

'Tis but the wraith of a love; yet I linger
(Thus passion errs),
Foolishly kissing the ring on my finger, —
Once it was hers.

Nothing has changed since her spirit departed,
Here, in this room,
Save I, who, weary and half broken-hearted,
Sit in the gloom.

Loud 'gainst the window the winter rain dashes,
Dreary and cold;
Over the floor the red fire-light flashes
Just as of old.

Just as of old, — but the embers are scattered,
Whose ruddy blaze
Flashed o'er the floor where her fairy feet pattered
In other days!

Then, her dear voice, like a silver-chime ringing,
Melted away;
Often these walls have re-echoed her singing
Now hushed for aye!

Why should love bring naught but sorrow, I wonder?
Everything dies!
Time and Death, sooner or later, must sunder
Holiest ties.

Years have rolled by; I am wiser and older, —
Wiser, but yet,
Not till my heart and its feelings grow colder,
Can I forget.

So, in my snug little fire-lit chamber,
Sit I alone;
And, as I gaze in the coals, I remember
Days long agone!