Frances Anne Kemble Poems

The golden hinges of the year have turned—
Spring, and the summer, and the harvest time
Have come, and gone; and on the threshold stands
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Good night, love!
May heaven's brightest stars watch over thee!
Good angels spread their wings, and cover thee;
And through the night,
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Knowest thou not that of all human gifts
God chooses love?—alone, that may be laid
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What shall I do with all the days and hours
That must be counted ere I see thy face?
How shall I charm the interval that lowers
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Blame not my tears, love, to you has been given
The brightest, best gift, God to mortals allows;
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Come where the white waves dance along the shore
Of some lone isle, lost in the unknown seas;
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Let me not die for ever! when I'm gone
To the cold earth; but let my memory
Live like the gorgeous western light that shone
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By the pure spring, whose haunted waters flow
Through thy sequestered dell unto the sea,
At sunny noon, I will appear to thee:
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Once more, once more into the sunny fields
Oh, let me stray!
And drink the joy that young existence yields
On a bright, cloudless day.
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Oh that I were a fairy sprite, to wander
In forest paths, o'erarched with oak and beech;
Where the sun's yellow light, in slanting rays,
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