Poems of Passion/Tired

I am tired to-night, and something, The wind maybe, or the rain, Or the cry of a bird in the copse outside, Has brought back the past and its pain. And I feel, as I sit here thinking, That the hand of a dead old June Has reached out hold of my heart's loose strings, And is drawing them up in tune.

I am tired to-night, and I miss you, And long for you, love, through tears; And it seems but to-day that I saw you go— You, who have been gone for years. And I seem to be newly lonely— I, who am so much alone; And the strings of my heart are well in tune, But they have not the same old tone.

I am tired; and that old sorrow Sweeps down the bed of my soul, As a turbulent river might sudden'y break way from a dam's control. It beareth a wreck on its bosom, A wreck with a snow-white sail; And the hand on my heart strings thrums away, But they only respond with a wail.