Henrik Johan Ibsen

(20 March 1828 – 23 May 1906 / Skien)

Gone


THE last, late guest
To the gate we followed;
Goodbye -- and the rest
The night-wind swallowed.

House, garden, street,
Lay tenfold gloomy,
Where accents sweet
Had made music to me.

It was but a feast
With the dark coming on;
She was but a guest --
And now, she is gone.

Submitted: Friday, April 16, 2010

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