THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD. WE sat within the farm-house old, Not far away we saw the port, The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, We sat and talked until the night, Our voices only broke the gloom. We spake of many a vanished scene, Of what we once had thought and said, Of what had been, and might have been, And who was changed, and who was dead; And all that fills the hearts of friends, When first they feel, with secret pain, Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD. The first slight swerving of the heart, Or say it in too great excess. The very tones in which we spake Oft died the words upon our lips, The flames would leap, and then expire. And, as their splendor flashed and failed, The windows, rattling in their frames, Until they made themselves a part Of fancies floating through the brain : The long-lost ventures of the heart, That send no answers back again. Ask me no more: the draw the rea moon may The cloud may stoop from heaven & take the shape, with fold to fold, of mountain or of cape, hik me no more, Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart & gather to the eyes ASK ME NO MORE. O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned! The drift-wood fire without that burned, The thoughts that burned and glowed within. ASK ME NO MORE. Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, But, O too fond! when have I answered thee? Ask me no more: what answer should I give? Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die! Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed; ALFRED TENNYSON. |