He comes to me like air on parching grass;
His eyes are wells where truth lives, found at last;
Summer is fragrant should he this way pass;
His calm love is a chain that binds me fast….
Yet often melancholy will forecast
That time when I shall have grown old-when he-
Still rapturous in his struggle with life's blast-
Shall give a pitying side glance to me,
Who skirt the fog-fringe of eternity,
Straining mine eyes to catch what shadowy sign
Of good or evil omen there may be,
Yet no sure good nor evil can divine:
Only some hints of doubtful sound and light,
That lonelier leave the uncompanioned night.
He Comes To Me Like Air On Parching Grass
Thomas Runciman
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Poem topics: fog, life, light, night, summer, time, truth, grass, eternity, fast, chain, skirt, struggle, divine, sound, evil, love, I love you, good, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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