T[size=-1]HE[/size] night creeps onward, sad and slow: In these red embers' dying glow The forms of Fancy come and go. An island-farm---broad seas of corn Stirred by the wandering breath of morn--- The happy spot where I was born. The picture fadeth in its place: Amid the glow I seem to trace The shifting semblance of a face. 'Tis now a little childish form--- Red lips for kisses pouted warm--- And elf-locks tangled in a storm. 'Tis now a brave and gentle maid, At her own beauty half afraid, Shrinking, and willing to be stayed. Oh, Time was young, and Life was warm, When first I saw that fairy-form, Her dark hair tossing in the storm. And fast and free these pulses played, When last I met that gentle maid--- When last her hand in mine was laid. Those locks of jet are turned to gray, And she is strange and far away That might have been mine own to-day--- That might have been mine own, my dear, Through many and many a happy year--- That might have sat beside me here. Ay, changeless through the changing scene, The ghostly whisper rings between, The dark refrain of "might have been." The race is o'er I might have run: The deeds are past I might have done; And sere the wreath I might have won. Sunk is the last faint flickering blaze: The vision of departed days Is vanished even as I gaze. The pictures, with their ruddy light, Are changed to dust and ashes white, And I am left alone with night. Jan. 1860 by lewis carroll for those of you who read my other entries you can tell i love lewis carroll regardless of what he did w/his life hes an amazing writer/poet. whose your favorite?
