Here you will find the Poem The Clock of poet Francis Scarfe
Far away is one who now is sleeping In the same world and the same darkness, But not in my keeping. Oh no, my arms could never stretch so far And my hands trembling with tenderness Cannot hope to caress Her limbs, save by remembering what they arc. Oh no, my words must never reach her ears That lie so white against her sombre hair, No, no, she must not hear My voice that has no happiness to bring, For she also is lost in a realm where My cry and my despair Are out of tune whatever song they sing. Perhaps as I lie waking she is dreaming, But not of me, for dreams are not so kind; While my eyes arc brimming With images of things that might have been, And my lips for a prayer for her peace of mind That, early, she may find A love more delicate and more serene. And all my body prays her to forget One who long cared for her too bitterly, One who is in her debt For the clock of suffering that kept, twelve years The hours of absence and futility, Who could love utterly Beyond the meaning of these words and tears.
