Frederick George Scott (7 April 1861 – 19 January 1944 / Montreal)
MY heart it lies beyond, dear,
In the land of the setting day,
Where the whispers are soft and fond, dear,
Of the voices that pass away;
And oft, when the night is falling,
And a calm is on the sea,
I fancy I hear them calling
rom that far-off land for me.
It is only idle dreaming,
But the dream is full of rest,
And up where that glory is streaming,
From the gates of the golden west,
I wander away in spirit,
With a mingled joy and pain,
Till I almost seem to inherit
The sweet dead past again.
I see the old dear faces,
I greet them hand to hand;
But sadly too, for the places
Seem strange in that curious land;
Till a new light breaks, and all other
Grows dim to my streaming eyes;
For a son has found his mother
In the depths of the throbbing skies.
Yes, my heart it lies beyond, dear,
Where that sun is burning low,
And were you not so fond, dear,
I might perhaps—but no!
Are you weary already with walking?
And tears! What tears, dear, too!
How selfish of me to be talking,
My darling, in this way to you!
Comments about this poem (Beyond by Frederick George Scott )
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