148

There is a hollow that I try to fill
With prayer, with thought, with song, with words and yet
It is — always is — a longing deep, shrill
And never one to rest or let forget
That I am and have been apart from thee
With little comfort to console except
That I may still yet be a part of thee;
If not, I can only be in woe and debt
O how rich thou makest the world for me!
Around thee there blossums spring eternal
And rich, untamed wilderness — wild and free!
But thy absence leaves a world infernal;
Summer is thy presence, autumn thy heart,
And winter my world when thou dost depart.
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This entry was posted in Sonnets.

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