Tired.

I am tired to-night, and something,          The wind maybe, or the rain,              Or the cry of a bird in the copse outside,          Has brought back the past and its pain.              And I feel, as I sit here thinking,          That the hand of a dead old June              Has reached out hold of my heart's loose strings,          And is drawing them up in tune.              I am tired to-night, and I miss you,          And long for you, love, through tears;              And it seems but to-day that I saw you go -          You, who have been gone for years.              And I seem to be newly lonely -          I, who am so much alone;              And the strings of my heart are well in tune,          But they have not the same old tone.              I am tired; and that old sorrow          Sweeps down the bed of my soul,              As a turbulent river might sudden'y break          way from a dam's control.              It beareth a wreck on its bosom,          A wreck with a snow-white sail;              And the hand on my heart strings thrums away,          But they only respond with a wail.