Until
By Clarence Edwin Flynn
None knows how lovely is the door
That in the evening swings,
Until it welcomes him no more
From daily journeyings.
None knows how lovely is a gate
That opens easily,
Till unresponsive hinges wait
In silence, drearily.
None knows how lovely are the hands
That touch him in the gloam,
The voice of love that understands,
Till he must stand alone.
Give thanks, and make each hour that goes,
A golden memory;
So steadily the river flows
On to the silent sea.
(1946)
A poem
with gloam
in it.
Yes, more gloaming! Nice catch, Gary. Ha!
On a more serious note, I don’t love the initial “None knows.” It’s ineffective — I wish it said, “No one knows.” Was this an expression idiomatic of the time? Who knows, maybe “none knows.”
None dare call it affected, David.
Nice, Ardis. You make me laugh.