by John Banister Tabb
Time shut the door, and turned the key;
And here in darkness (woe is me!)
I wait and call in vain:
He will not come again!
I had but stepped beyond the light,
And on the threshold of the night
Turned back -- alas, to find
Life's portal closed behind!
Breathless, I beat the ponderous door:
No answer! Silence evermore,
Remembering what has been,
Sits desolate within.
The Present dead, Futurity,
Its still-born babe, wakes not for me:
I am alone at last
With the immortal Past.
John Lane, LondonCopeland and Day, Boston