John William Inchbold
The lone parched land still yearns for later rains,
The hopeless exile for a sight of home,
Those ever suffering ask a change of pains,—
The sea itself, when lashed to constant foam,
Seems pleading drearily for signs of peace:—
Ah constant grey that covers all the sky!
Ah cruel bitter winds that will not cease!
Ah tearful painful life, that cannot die!
Since flushed and fancy-nursed with hope and fear,
Until the weary dawn comes on at last,
And all desires are fled, and hope is drear;
Then dies a fair sad life unfairly past:—
O scatter round the grave earth's rarest flowers;
In Love's own garden still are joyous hours.
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Comments about this poem (At Last by John William Inchbold )
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