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A Lost Hour…

CL Gillmore

 

“A languid calm and a dull content,
Silence instead of speech;
The wind sighed low and the lark sang high,
But the golden hour of our lives went by,
And drifted out of reach.

The years creep on and the heart grows tired
Even of hopes fulfilled,
And turns away from the world’s strong wine
With fevered lips, that must ever pine
For that pure draught we spilled.

And yet perchance when our long day wanes
(Age hath its joys late-born).
We shall meet again on the green hillside,
And find, in the solemn eventide,
The hour we lost at morn.”

Poem excerpt from “Thistle-Down” by Sarah Doudney, 1893

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