Retrospect

I sit by the fire in the gloaming,
    In the depths of my easy chair,
And I ponder, as old men ponder,
    Over times and things that were.

And outside is the gusty rushing,
    Of the fierce November blast,
With the snow drift waltzing and whirling,
    And eddying swiftly past,

It's a wild night to be abroad in,
    When the ice blast and snow drift meet
To wreath round all the world of winter
    A shroud and a winding sheet.

There's a dash of hail at the window,
    Thick with driving snow is the air;
But I sit here in ease and comfort
    In the depths of my easy chair.

I have fought my way in life's battle,
    And won Fortune's fickle caress;
Won from fame just a passing notice,
    And enjoy what is called success.

As I sit here in ease and comfort,
    And the shadows they rise and fall,
And the dear old familiar faces
    Look out from the pannelled wall.

Ah! reminders of living fondness
    Gleam out in their pictured looks;
And in ranks round from floor to ceiling,
    Are my life-long friends, my books.

The bright wood fire crackles and sparkles,
    Leaping up with a sudden glow,
Playing hide and seek with the shadows
    That flit round me to and fro.

They come and look over my shoulder,
    And they vanish behind my chair;
Ah! the notice that life's November
    Has sprinkled with snow my hair.

Ah! the shadows that gather round me,
    That will never more depart,
That are flitting around my chamber,
    That are closing around my heart!

All the shadows of undone actions,
    And the shadow of deep regret,
Over many occasions wasted,
    And of duties, alas! unmet.

Over words that are left unspoken,
    And of woe that was left unshared,
Over high resolutions broken,
    And calls that would not be heard.

And the shade of a deeper sorrow
    Still hovers about my chair;
It is this, and not life's November,
    Has sprinkled with snow my hair.

For my life has passed into evening,
    And I sit, mid the shadows here,
Hearing still the shadowy whisper
    That success may be bought too dear.

Nora Pembroke

Nora Pembroke

No biography available

Nora Pembroke

English

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See, the fire is sinking low,
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    While above them still I cower,
While a moment more I linger,
Though the clock, with lifted finger,
    Points beyond the midnight hour.

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How above there in the dark,
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Like the trumpets of Iskander,
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Every quivering tongue of flame
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An Autumn Evening At Murray Bay.

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The Deserted.

"Come, sit thee by my side once more,
    'Tis long since thus we' met;
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Its transient day has long been past,
    Its flame has ceased to burn, -
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Sitting by the Fire

Barren age and withered World!
Oh! the dying leaves,
Like a drizzling rain,
Falling round the roof
Pattering on the pane!
Frosty Age and cold, cold World!
Ghosts of other days,
Trooping past the faded fire,
Flit before the gaze.
Now the wind goes soughing wild
O’er the whistling Earth;
And we front a feeble flame,
Sitting round the hearth!
Sitting by the fire,
Watching in its glow,
Ghosts of other days
Trooping to and fro.

.    .    .    .    .

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Sitting by the fire,
Cheerful in its glow;
Twenty summers back
Twenty years ago!
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Sitting by the Fire

Ah! the solace in the sitting,
Sitting by the fire,
When the wind without is calling
And the fourfold clouds are falling,
With the rain-racks intermitting,
Over slope and spire.
Ah! the solace in the sitting,
Sitting by the fire.

Then, and then, a man may ponder,
Sitting by the fire,
Over fair far days, and faces
Shining in sweet-coloured places
Ere the thunder broke asunder
Life and dear Desire.
Thus, and thus, a man may ponder,
Sitting by the fire.

Waifs of song pursue, perplex me,
Sitting by the fire:
Just a note, and lo, the change then!
Like a child, I turn and range then,
Till a shadow starts to vex me
Passion’s wasted pyre.
So do songs pursue, perplex me,
Sitting by the fire.

Night by night the o...

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