Clouds anew have gather'd o'er me,
Sad and grim, and dark and still;
Black and menacing before me
Glooms the Destiny of Ill ...
In contempt with fate contending,
Shall I bring, to meet her flood,
The enduring and unbending
Spirit of my youthful blood?
Worn with life-storm, cold and dreary,
Calmly I await the blast,
Saved from wreck, yet wet and weary,
I may find a port at last.
See, it comes--the hour thou fearest!
Hour escapeless! We must part!
Haply now I press thee, dearest,
For the last time, to my heart.
Angel mild and unrepining,
Gently breathe a fond farewell--
Thy soft eyes, through tear-drops shining,
Raised or lower'd--shall be my spell:
And thy memory abiding,
To my spirit shall restore
The hope, the pride, the strong confiding
Of my youthful days once more.
* * * * *
Perhaps our readers would like to see a _Russian Sonnet_. To many the
name of such a thing will seem a union of two contradictory terms; but,
nevertheless, here is a sonnet, and not a bad one either.