de profundis - Popular Poems and stories from category

The face, which, duly as the sun,
Rose up for me with life begun,
To mark all bright hours of the day With hourly love, is dimmed away—And yet my days go on, go on
II The tongue which, like a stream, could

There is a stubble field on which a black rain falls
There is a tree which, brown, stands lonely here
There is a hissing wind which haunts deserted huts—-How sad this evening
Past the village