Page:Collected poems vol 1 de la mare.djvu/214

 ark is the night,
 * The fire burns faint and low,

Hours — days — years,
 * Into grey ashes go;

I strive to read,
 * But sombre is the glow.

Thumbed are the pages,
 * And the print is small;

Mocking the winds
 * That from the darkness call;

Feeble the fire that lends
 * Its light withal.

O ghost, draw nearer;
 * Let thy shadowy hair,

Blot out the pages
 * That we cannot share;

Be ours the one last leaf
 * By Fate left bare!

Let's Finis scrawl,
 * And then Life's book put by;

Turn each to each
 * In all simplicity:

Ere the last flame is gone
 * To warm us by.