George Powell Thomas

BUT ah! the Future! That lies far away,

Hidden in mists above whose murky shade

Ev’n Hope, the flatterer, into air doth fade,

Till, of her radiant presence, scarce one ray

Lingers to light my solitary way.

Dread Future! Ever, as my heart had strayed

’Mid thy dim wastes, it hurries back, afraid,

And by the wayside sits alone, to pray,—

A timid traveller who has lost his track,

And cowers in solitude, of home to muse,

Of home, to which he fain would wander back,

Following his heart there, but the Fates refuse;

And there he sits in dark cold misery,

With Memory alone!—’t is so with me.