 | Poems and Sonnets |  |
143
THE SONG OF THE LONELY SOUL.
I live my life in a lonely land
Without the sound of a smile,
Pacing a desolate twilight strand,
Gnawing my heart with a file
Of memories iron, a heaped-up band,
Like waves that the wild winds pile
Without the sound of a smile,
Pacing a desolate twilight strand,
Gnawing my heart with a file
Of memories iron, a heaped-up band,
Like waves that the wild winds pile
All together, en masse, pell-mell,
Writhing like crested snakes,
Opening depths of a foam-flecked hell,
Filling the air with flakes
That ride, like witches, right out of the well
Where each upon each wave breaks;
Writhing like crested snakes,
Opening depths of a foam-flecked hell,
Filling the air with flakes
That ride, like witches, right out of the well
Where each upon each wave breaks;
144
Such are the miseries strong to assail
Heart and being of mine,
Thrashing the wheat of one's mind with a flail
That leaves no time to repine,
For blows are rapid, and coats of mail
Would be only as twisted twine
Heart and being of mine,
Thrashing the wheat of one's mind with a flail
That leaves no time to repine,
For blows are rapid, and coats of mail
Would be only as twisted twine
Before the force of it; not to kill
Outright are the blows of it bent,
Only to torture, only to spill
Warm blood from the veins of us rent
As runs from a rock rod-stricken a rill,
It seems as if it were sent!
Outright are the blows of it bent,
Only to torture, only to spill
Warm blood from the veins of us rent
As runs from a rock rod-stricken a rill,
It seems as if it were sent!
If there is Purpose what care we?
What matter if there is none?
For then, as it seems, the sooner the sea
Drowns out the light of the sun,
And swamps in water all things that be
The sooner will Death be done!
What matter if there is none?
For then, as it seems, the sooner the sea
Drowns out the light of the sun,
And swamps in water all things that be
The sooner will Death be done!
145
If there is Love, though not for us,
Yet it is well to abide—
If there is Beauty, we'll not discuss
Result of our own life's ride,
But cease, like waves from foam, from the fuss
Of the ages and calm subside;
Yet it is well to abide—
If there is Beauty, we'll not discuss
Result of our own life's ride,
But cease, like waves from foam, from the fuss
Of the ages and calm subside;
If there is none there is nothing at all,
All things that are, are not,
The Universe crumbles beneath a pall
Of rottenness, silences hot
To blast with their breath us weak worms fall
On us, being from being to blot.
All things that are, are not,
The Universe crumbles beneath a pall
Of rottenness, silences hot
To blast with their breath us weak worms fall
On us, being from being to blot.
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