Desolation

I miss them in the morning,
When the mist is on the hill:
When no busy hum is heard
And all the land is still.
Oh, the dear familiar faces,
Oh, the void and empty spaces, and the
Longing for the voices that are still.

I miss them in the evening,
By the fireside’s ruddy glow:
Its light and warmth seem only
The vacant chairs to show.
My heart then fills with sorrow
For the dawning of the morrow,
Without the loving voices that are still.

When I hear the joyous notes
That hail the coming Spring,
And all around the gladness
Makes wood and valley ring,
Then I miss them even more
Than I ever did before, in the
Beauty and the fragrance of the Spring.

When the dreary cold and chill
Of the winter draweth nigh:
When the sobbing wind is heard,
And the pretty flowerets die,
Then I miss them most of all,
And I seem to hear the call of the
Dear and loving voices that are still.

Oh, the dear familiar faces!
Oh, the void and empty spaces, and the
Longing for the voices that are still.

W H Pepworth
Poems of the Way