McClure's Magazine/Volume 32/Number 4/Premonition

So often we sit thus, long evening through, Spendthrift of dream and silence from a store Of hopes and memories and love, so vast, No want we know, no further boon implore.

Yet sometimes while in firelight revery We draw to-morrow's strength from love at rest, All suddenly I dream thy face grows pale, Remote as of some strange, celestial guest:

Then to my boding heart Fear breathes; mark well This friendly hour, this dear, familiar place, For change will be: guard lest thy loneliness Lack even remembrance of Joy's passing grace.