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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=509197" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Vigil</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">THE rain is falling on the roof,<br>And no sound else disturbs the wife,<br>Except the trees and winds at strife,<br>Now near at hand and now aloof;<br>But listening, leaning evermore,<br>She waits a knock upon the door.<br>Her hair is braided round her head;<br>Her eyes are large and fierce and bright;<br>Her shapely throat is soft and white;<br>And on her mouth there burns the red<br>Of that rich, storied gem that shone<br>Upon the breast of Prester John.<br>Upon the couch her husband lies.<br>How is it that he lies so still?<br>Why sleeps he there so pale and chill,<br>The lamplight on his lidded eyes?<br>Has she not fire, and more than fire<br>To thrill his flesh with hot desire?<br>Anon she lifts her rounded arms<br>As though to feel that she is free;<br>And her large eyes exultantly<br>Light up, as when the dawn-glow charms<br>With roseate lights that gleam and glance<br>Twin pools to sudden radiance.<br>The rain is falling on the roof;<br>Yet, though her ears are open wide,<br>There is no other sound outside —<br>No fall of foot, nor tramp of hoof.<br>And on his couch with lidded eyes<br>The husband, cold and pallid, lies.<br>The midnight sky is wild and black<br>And drenches earth with ceaseless tears;<br>And now it seems to her she hears<br>Hoof-strokes upon the sodden track;<br>And now she rises, sweet as sin,<br>To let the late night-strayer in.<br>The lamplight gleams upon his face,<br>And glistens on his reddened spur;<br>He stretches out his arms to her<br>And folds her in a rude embrace. . . .<br>How can it be the husband lies<br>So still, with heavy-lidded eyes?<br>Perchance he neither sees nor hears,<br>And sleeps unmoved by chance or change.<br>And yet. . . .and yet, it seems so strange —<br>If he be dead there should be tears.<br>Not love nor smiles, nor midnight bliss,<br>Nor mouths that marry in a kiss.<br>The loud winds thrust upon the door,<br>The raindrops plash against the roof,<br>The trickles from a waterproof<br>Make little pools upon the floor;<br>No foe between, no more apart,<br>They stand, heart throbbing back to heart.<br>Anon she says: 'He died this morn.<br>He did not die a whit too soon;<br>Life's day, alas, makes towards its noon.<br>He should have died when love was born.<br>He should have died long since. And now<br>Kiss me again — my mouth, my brow!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Roderic+Quinn">Roderic Quinn</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=509197" data-title="The Vigil de Roderic Quinn" data-description="THE rain is falling on the roof,
And no sound else disturbs the wife,
Except the trees and winds at strife,
Now near at hand and now aloof;
But listening, leaning evermore,
She waits a knock upon the door.
Her hair is braided round her head;
Her e..."></div>
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