MY JOURNAL. Make the charred logs burn brighter; Of bygone things and days. Bring here the ancient volume; Here, where still waiting, dreaming, The young heart all unconscious Had entered on the strife. 109 See how this page is blotted: What, could those tears be mine? How coolly I can read you Each blurred and trembling line. Now I can reason calmly, And, looking back again, Here strong resolve - how broken; Nay, I will turn the pages To where the tale is told Of how a dawn diviner Flushed the dark clouds with gold. And see, that light has gilded Here well, it does not matter, -- I promised to read all; I know not why I falter, Or why my tears should fall. |