Victor James Daley Poems

THE DAYS go by—the days go by,
Sadly and wearily to die:
Each with its burden of small cares,
Each with its sad gift of gray hairs
...

OVER a slow-dying fire,
Dreaming old dreams, I am sitting;
The flames leap up and expire;
A woman sits opposite knitting.
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Her gown was simple woven wool,
But, in repayment,
Her body sweet made beautiful
The simplest raiment:
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Love is the sunlight of the soul,
That, shining on the silken-tressèd head
Of her we love, around it seems to shed
A golden angel-aureole.
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The wan light of a stormy dawn
Gleamed on a tossing ship:
It was the In Memoriam
Upon a mourning trip.
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And after all -- and after all,
   Our passionate prayers, and sighs, and tears,
Is life a reckless carnival?
   And are they lost, our golden years?
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NEÆRA crowns me with a purple wreath
That she with her own dainty hands did twine;
Gold-hearted blossoms and blue buds in sheath,
Mingled with veined green leaves of the wild vine.
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CARE is a Poet fine:
He works in shade or shine,
And leaves—you know his sign!—
No day without its line.
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’Tis said that the Passion Flower,
With its figures of spear and sword
And hammer and nails, is a symbol
Of the Woe of our Blessed Lord.
...