Aimless Longings

I am full of an aimless longing
As I wander about to-day;
I turn from the light and shadow
As they chase each other at play.


I hear a wild bird calling—
A lonely cry from the hill;
And the haunting sense in my bosom,
Grows deeper and lonelier still.


What it can be I know not,
I cannot read it aright;
And I wander as men will wander
That stray from the path in the night.


Is it a sense of something
That to-day still follows me;
That out of my life has vanished,
As a ship goes down at sea?

by Alexander Anderson

Comments (1)

'Written at Florence'.. poesia scritta a Firenze - presso F. - dove? :)