Far away is one who now is sleeping <br />In the same world and the same darkness, <br />But not in my keeping. <br />Oh no, my arms could never stretch so far <br />And my hands trembling with tenderness <br />Cannot hope to caress <br />Her limbs, save by remembering what they arc. <br /> <br />Oh no, my words must never reach her ears <br />That lie so white against her sombre hair, <br />No, no, she must not hear <br />My voice that has no happiness to bring, <br />For she also is lost in a realm where <br />My cry and my despair <br />Are out of tune whatever song they sing. <br /> <br />Perhaps as I lie waking she is dreaming, <br />But not of me, for dreams are not so kind; <br />While my eyes arc brimming <br />With images of things that might have been, <br />And my lips for a prayer for her peace of mind <br />That, early, she may find <br />A love more delicate and more serene. <br /> <br />And all my body prays her to forget <br />One who long cared for her too bitterly, <br />One who is in her debt <br />For the clock of suffering that kept, twelve years <br />The hours of absence and futility, <br />Who could love utterly <br />Beyond the meaning of these words and tears.<br /><br />Francis Scarfe<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-clock-22/
