POETRY.
MY COMRADE.
Snit does not come on summer days, Or on those nights when moonlight fills The garden with a glimmering haze ; And in the time of daffodils Far, far apart from me she stays.
But when on stormy nights I go Down shadowy lawns, by whispering woods, She paces with me to and fro, And takes a thousand varying moods, As winds that know not whence they blow.
I hear the rustle of her dress, A light kiss falls upon my hair,— She seems so near—I turn to bless Her company,—but darkness there Holds mocking depths of emptiness.
Anon she murmurs : " I am nigh, Oh, dearest, listen! I am near." I hear the light step flitting by, And borne upon the wind I hear, "Oh, dearest, dearest, it is I !"
Ali, God ! For just one moment's space To hold her to my heart again!
Down, down the woodland paths I race, My arms outstretched to her ;—the rain Falls like soft tears upon my face.
But always out of reach, the cry Comes sobbing back among the trees, " Oh, dearest, dearest, it is I! "
And through the thunder of the seas, "Oh, dearest, listen! I am nigh."
Still, still she leads me on apace, And still I follow, calling her, Until, through well-known meadow-ways, And down dark avenues of fir, She leads me to the Peaceful Place.
There, sheltered from the storms that rave Without the ancient guardian wall,
Lie those who hear nor wind nor wave,—
And there she leaves me, though I fall To bitter weeping, by her grave.
INA. M. STENNING.
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