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Until

By: Ardis E. Parshall - November 05, 2013

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)



5 Comments »

  1. A poem
    with gloam
    in it.

    Comment by Gary Bergera — November 5, 2013 @ 2:10 pm

  2. Yes, more gloaming! Nice catch, Gary. Ha!

    Comment by David Y. — November 5, 2013 @ 2:51 pm

  3. 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.”

    Comment by David Y. — November 5, 2013 @ 2:52 pm

  4. None dare call it affected, David.

    Comment by Ardis E. Parshall — November 5, 2013 @ 4:23 pm

  5. Nice, Ardis. You make me laugh.

    Comment by David Y. — November 5, 2013 @ 5:43 pm

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