Song.

A poem by Frances Anne Kemble

The moment must come, when the hands that unite
In the firm clasp of friendship, will sever;
When the eyes that have beamed o'er us brightly to-night,
Will have ceased to shine o'er us, for ever.
Yet wreathe again the goblet's brim
With pleasure's roseate crown!
What though the future hour be dim -
The present is our own!

The moment is come, and again we are parting,
To roam through the world, each our separate way;
In the bright eye of beauty the pearl-drop is starting,
But hope, sunny hope, through the tear sheds its ray.
Then wreathe again the goblet's brim
With pleasure's roseate crown!
What though the present hour be dim -
The future's yet our own!

The moment is past, and the bright throng that round us
So lately was gathered, has fled like a dream;
And time has untwisted the fond links that bound us,
Like frost wreaths that melt in the morning's first beam.
Still wreathe once more the goblet's brim!
With pleasure's roseate crown!
What though all else beside be dim -
The past has been our own!

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'Song.' by Frances Anne Kemble

comments powered by Disqus

Home | Search | About this website | Contact | Privacy Policy