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Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889

In Sorrow’s Hour

By Lizette Woodworth Reese (1856–1935)

THE BRAMBLES blow without you,—at the door

They make late April,—and the brier too

Buds its first rose for other folk than you;

In the deep grass the elder bush once more

Heaps its sweet snow; and the marsh-marigold

With its small fire sets all the sedge aflare;

Like flakes of flame blown down the gray, still air,

The cardinal-flower is out in thickets old.

Oh, love! oh, love! what road is yours to-day?

For I would follow after, see your face,

Put my hand in your hand, feel the dear grace

Of hair, mouth, eyes, hear the brave words you say.

The dark is void, and all the daylight vain.

Oh, that you were but here with me again!