Aaron Southwick

The Forsaken Room

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How dimly through these window panes
The struggling light intrudes!
What solemn silence broods
In this old room! what sadness reigns!
The dust is on this ancient chair;
Its velvet soiled with years;
I see no loved one sitting there;
My eyes are full of tears.

The marble table, where respose
The books now read no more
Reminds me o'er and o'er
Of One as fair as Sunset rose.
And in that dismal corner stands
The mandolin she played;
But oh! I cannot see the hands
That sweetest music made!

The useless strings are broken now,
And in this lonely room
There dwells a stifling gloom
That darkens all my weary brow.
The cobwebs hang in long festoons;
They slowly rise and sway;
In sorrow all my gladness swoons;
I cannot bear to stay.

That flower-enameled escritoire,
Once kept with tender care,
Now lies wide-open there
As dusty as the oaken floor.
The pearly knife, the golden pen,
The crystal stand I see -
Dead fingers will not trace again
A loving line to me.

Yet memory doth the past restore,
Its sweetest thoughts and gems,
The soul's own diadems,
The cherished friend I loved of yore.
I see her flash and slowly glide,
Like some celestial sprite,
Then hover closely by my side,
A star of purest light!
I leave my foot-prints on the floor;
I slowly turn to go;
I check a wave of woe;
I close for age the creaking door.
And as I stricken walk away
I hear a phantom voice
In soulful whispers faintly say:
"Rejoice, my friend, rejoice."

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Aaron Southwick