The Window Overlooking The Harbour

A poem by Violet Nicolson, Lawrence Hope, Adela Florence Cory Nicolson (1865 – 1904)

Sad is the Evening: all the level sand

Lies left and lonely, while the restless sea,

Tired of the green caresses of the land,

Withdraws into its own infinity.

But still more sad this white and chilly Dawn

Filling the vacant spaces of the sky,

While little winds blow here and there forlorn

And all the stars, weary of shining, die.

And more than desolate, to wake, to rise,

Leaving the couch, where softly sleeping still,

What through the past night made my heaven, lies;

And looking out across the window sill

See, from the upper window’s vantage ground,

Mankind slip into harness once again,

And wearily resume his daily round

Of love and labour, toil and strife and pain.

How the sad thoughts slip back across the night:

The whole thing seems so aimless and so vain.

What use the raptures, passion and delight,

Burnt out; as though they could not wake again.

The worn-out nerves and weary brain repeat

The question: Whither all these passions tend;–

This curious thirst, so painful and so sweet,

So fierce, so very short-lived, to what end?

Even, if seeking for ourselves, the Race,

The only immortality we know,–

Even if from the flower of our embrace

Some spark should kindle, or some fruit should grow,

What were the use? the gain, to us or it,

That we should cause another You or Me,–

Another life, from our light passion lit,

To suffer like ourselves awhile and die.

What aim, what end indeed? Our being runs

In a closed circle. All we know or see

Tends to assure us that a thousand Suns,

Teeming perchance with life, have ceased to be.

Ah, the grey Dawn seems more than desolate,

And the past night of passion worse than waste,

Love but a useless flower, that soon or late,

Turns to a fruit with bitter aftertaste.

Youth, even Youth, seems futile and forlorn

While the new day grows slowly white above.

Pale and reproachful comes the chilly Dawn

After the fervour of a night of love.

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• From Milton: And did those feet by William Blake by William Blake
• Blind Man’s Buff by William Blake by William Blake
• XVI: Some Verses: Of Conquerouris by William Alexander by William Alexander
• XV: Some Verses: Ciprian’s Smyling by William Alexander by William Alexander
• XIV: Some Verses: To Mr. Edward Allane by William Alexander by William Alexander
• XIII: Some Verses: On A Report On The Death Of The Author by William Alexander by William Alexander
• A Slumber did my Spirit Seal by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• A Sketch by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• A Poet’s Epitaph by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• A Poet! He Hath Put His Heart To School by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• A Parsonage In Oxfordshire by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• A Morning Exercise by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• A Jewish Family In A Small Valley Opposite St. Goar, Upon The Rhine by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• A Gravestone Upon The Floor In The Cloisters Of Worcester Cathedral by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• A Fact, And An Imagination, Or, Canute And Alfred, On The Seashore by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• A Complaint by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• XII: Some Verses: Sonnet, To The Authour by William Alexander by William Alexander
• XI: Some Verses: To His Worthy Friend Master Walter Quin by William Alexander by William Alexander
• X: Some Verses: To His Most Affectionate Friend Mr. Lithgow by William Alexander by William Alexander
• VII: Some Verses: On The Death of John Murray by William Alexander by William Alexander

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