Absence

Ah, happy air that, rough or soft,
May kiss that face and stay;
And happy beams that from above
May choose to her their way;
And happy flowers that now and then
Touch lips more sweet than they!

But it were not so blest to be
Or light or air or rose;
Those dainty fingers tear and toss
The bloom that in them glows;
And come or go, both wind and ray
She heeds not, if she knows.

But if I come thy choice should be
Either to love or not
For if I might I would not kiss
And then be all forgot;
And it were best thy love to lose
If love self-scorn begot.

Thomas Heney

Thomas William Heney was an Australian journalist and poet, born in Sydney. Heney contributed to numerous newspapers and journals in Australia, developing a reputation for his literary work. His poetry is often noted for its natural themes and depictions of the Australian landscape. Over his career, he held several editorial positions at major newspapers and was regarded as a significant figure in Australian literature.

Thomas Heney

To The Poet

Thomas Heney, Simple Poetry

A Riverina Road

Thomas Heney, Simple Poetry

The Boundary Rider

Thomas Heney, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Absence

'Tis not the loss of love's assurance,
It is not doubting what thou art,
But 'tis the too, too long endurance
Of absence, that afflicts my heart.

The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish,
When each is lonely doom'd to weep,
Are fruits on desert isles that perish,
Or riches buried in the deep.

What though, untouch'd by jealous madness,
Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck;
Th' undoubting heart, that breaks with sadness,
Is but more slowly doom'd to break.

Absence! is not the soul torn by it
From more than light, or life, or breath?
'Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet,
The pain without the peace of death.

Thomas Campbell

To An Absentee.

O'er hill, and dale, and distant sea,
Through all the miles that stretch between,
My thought must fly to rest on thee,
And would, though worlds should intervene.

Nay, thou art now so dear, methinks
The farther we are forced apart,
Affection's firm elastic links
But bind the closer round the heart.

For now we sever each from each,
I learned what I have lost in thee;
Alas, that nothing else could teach
How great indeed my love should be!

Farewell! I did not know thy worth;
But thou art gone, and now 'tis prized:
So angels walk'd unknown on earth,
But when they flew were recognized!

Thomas Hood

Absence.

What shall I do with all the days and hours
    That must be counted ere I see thy face?
How shall I charm the interval that lowers
    Between this time and that sweet time of grace?

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,
    Weary with longing? - shall I flee away
Into past days, and with some fond pretence
    Cheat myself to forget the present day?

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin
    Of casting from me God's great gift of time;
Shall I these mists of memory locked within,
    Leave, and forget, life's purposes sublime?

Oh! how, or by what means, may I contrive
    To bring the hour that brings thee back more near?
How may I teach my drooping hope to live
    Until that blessed time, and thou art here?

I'll tell thee: ...

Frances Anne Kemble

In Absence. (Moods Of Love.)

My love for thee is like a winged seed
    Blown from the heart of thy rare beauty's flower,
    And deftly guided by some breezy power
To fall and rest, where I should never heed,
In deepest caves of memory. There, indeed,
    With virtue rife of many a sunny hoar, -
    Ev'n making cold neglect and darkness dower
Its roots with life, - swiftly it 'gan to breed,
Till now wide-branching tendrils it outspreads
    Like circling arms, to prison its own prison,
Fretting the walls with blooms by myriads,
    And blazoning in my brain full summer-season:
Thy face, whose dearness presence had not taught.
In absence multiplies, and fills all thought.

George Parsons Lathrop

Absence

In this fair strangers eyes of grey
Thine eyes, my love, I see.
I shudder: for the passing day
Had borne me far from thee.

This is the curse of life: that not
A nobler calmer train
Of wiser thoughts and feelings blot
Our passions from our brain;

But each day brings its petty dust
Our soon-chokd souls to fill,
And we forget because we must,
And not because we will.

I struggle towards the light; and ye,
Once-longd-for storms of love!
If with the light ye cannot be,
I bear that ye remove.

I struggle towards the light; but oh,
While yet the night is chill,
Upon Times barren, stormy flow,
Stay with me, Marguerite, still!

Matthew Arnold

Unknowing

When, soul in soul reflected,
We breathed an aethered air,
When we neglected
All things elsewhere,
And left the friendly friendless
To keep our love aglow,
We deemed it endless . . .
We did not know!

When, by mad passion goaded,
We planned to hie away,
But, unforeboded,
The storm-shafts gray
So heavily down-pattered
That none could forthward go,
Our lives seemed shattered . . .
We did not know!

When I found you, helpless lying,
And you waived my deep misprise,
And swore me, dying,
In phantom-guise
To wing to me when grieving,
And touch away my woe,
We kissed, believing . . .
We did not know!

But though, your powers outreckoning,
You hold you dead and dumb,
Or scorn my beckoning,
And will ...

Thomas Hardy