by E.S. Jeffares.
Originally published in The Poet's Magazine (Leonard Lloyd) vol.2 #6 (Feb 1877).
The lamp is burning down with shadows dim,
Only one streak of light beneath the door
Is shining in, like narrow threads of gold
On oaken floor.
And the low lounging velvet-cushioned chair
Is, as you left it, standing all awry,
The heavy curtains fall in closer folds
With sympathy.
And there the table where we played at chess
Is pushed aside (just where you moved it, Sweet),
And here an ivory queen with broken crown
Lies at my feet.
The hyacinth you nestled in my hair
Is perfumed faintly with soft summer scent,
And in my hand I hold a withered rose
Dropt, as you went.
Yet all these things, breathe but of past delights,
Of memories defying freaks of fate—
An empty throne-room, with its king dethroned,
Devoid of state.
But in the subject's heart the king still reigns,
Though on his brow no jewelled diadem,
Only a rose-wreath, fairer far to view
Love's anadem.
The night is closing in—'Tis midnight's hour,
What will to-morrow bring with it—
Who knows?
Ah! nought so sweet as this day's hyacinth,
And this day's rose!