I watch the drowsy night expire,
And Fancy paints at my desire
Her magic pictures in the fire.

An island farm 'mid seas of corn
Swayed by the wandering breath of morn--
The happy spot where I was born.

The picture fadeth in its place,
And fitfully I seem to trace
The shifting semblance of a face.

'Tis now a little childish form,
Red lips for kisses pouted warm,
And elf-locks tangled in the storm--

'Tis now a grave and gentle maid,
At her own beauty half afraid,
Shrinking, and willing to be stayed--

'Tis now a matron with her boys,
Dear centre of domestic joys;
I seem to hear the merry noise.

Oh, time was young, and life was warm,
When first I saw that fairy form,
Her dark hair fluttering in the storm;

And fast and free these pulses played
When last I met that gentle maid,
When last her hand in mine was laid.

Those locks of jet are turned to grey,
And she is strange and far away
That might have been mine own today,

That might have been mine, my dear,
Through many and many a happy year,
That might have sat beside me here.

Aye, changeless through the changing scene,
The ghostly whisper rings between,
The dark refrain of 'might have been'.

The race is o'er I might have run,
The deeds are passed I might have done,
And sere the wreath I might have won.

Sunk is the last faint, flickering blaze:
The vision of departed days
Is vanished even as I gaze;

The pictures with their ruddy light
Are changed to dust and ashy white,
And I am left alone with night.