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Title: "Evening"
Author: John Presland [
More Titles by Presland]
Beloved of my soul, the day is done;
The busy noises cease, the lights are low;
Gently the doors shut to behind each one
Seeking his sleep; the fading embers glow
On silent hearths; the silent ashes fall--
Ah, absent spirit, do you hear me call,
Me, sitting waiting by the fireside?
This is the hour of all the night and day,
--This is the hour when, work put aside,
And all the talking, whether grave or gay,
For pleasure or for profit, hushed and dumb,
We used to, in the days before you died,
Seek out each other's mind for rest, and say:
"Now am I home, and all is well with me;
To-day is gone, to-morrow is to come;
Here let us be."
Surely, for all the barriers of sense,
And the stark grossness of this flesh I wear,
For all the vacant distance of the skies
Between me here alone, and you, gone hence,
There must be some quick knowledge; I must hear
That dear familiar voice again, must see
Some semblance of you with my bodily eyes,
Now, now, when in the solitude I yearn
Towards your heart, my home; now when I turn
Humbly and searchingly towards that goal
That lies beyond the purchase of the world--
You again, you, dear comrade of my soul.
[The end]
John Presland's poem: "Evening"
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