The Dolorous Hour
The hours send a gloominess,
The dolours take their toll,
This lonely road,
Dost gall and goad,
A heavy load,
So sadly stowed,
The bruising of my soul!
The ornamental tapestries,
In muteness on the wall,
Their fancy guise,
Agrieves my eyes,
The artist’s prize,
My heart decries,
The patterns like a pall.
The clock in revelation speaks,
Pronouncing coming doom,
Reminding men,
They’ll fall again,
Their earthly pen,
A doleful den,
Arrayed in growing gloom.
The visions from the window’s arch,
Presenting gardens dim,
With shadowed lawns,
As winter dawns,
Such lonely morns,
That colour scorns,
Bereft of verve or vim.
The knowledge of departed kin,
My children flown away,
Their learned speech,
With love to teach,
Departed each,
Beyond my reach,
And vanished from the day.
The pacing through the lofty rooms,
The lamps in mournful glow,
With nothing left,
But sorrow’s heft,
The house bereft,
By grudges cleft,
An enervating woe!
The company of only one,
To fill these bitter days,
Bewitched again,
By ghostly men,
This guarded glen,
A phantom’s fen,
In destitution’s craze…
https://artsandculture.google.com/as: /dolors/AwHrft73qDcu8A
