New York Nocturnes and Other Poems

by Charles G.D. Roberts


 

A Street Vigil


 

Here is the street
Made holy by the passing of her feet,—
   The little, tender feet, more sweet than myrrh,
   Which I have washed with tears for love of her.

Here she has gone

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Until the very stones have taken on
   A glory from her passing, and the place
   Is tremulous with memory of her face.

Here is the room
That holds the light to lighten all my gloom.

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   Beyond that blank white window she is sleeping
   Who hath my hope, my health, my fame, in keeping.

A little peace
Here for a little, ere my vigil cease
   And I turn homeward, shaken with the strife

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   Of hope that struggles hopeless, sick for life.

Surely the power
That lifted me from darkness that one hour
   To a dear heaven whereof no word can tell
   Not wantonly will thrust me back to hell.

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