 | Songs and poems (1909) |  |
170
II
Dull ash-grey frost upon the black-grey fields:
Thick wreaths of tortured smoke above the town:
The chill impervious fog no foothold yields,
But onward draws its shroud of yellow brown.
Thick wreaths of tortured smoke above the town:
The chill impervious fog no foothold yields,
But onward draws its shroud of yellow brown.
No star can pierce the gloom, no moon dispart:
And I am lonely here, and scarcely know
What mockery is “death from a broken heart,”
What tragic pity in the one word: Woe.
And I am lonely here, and scarcely know
What mockery is “death from a broken heart,”
What tragic pity in the one word: Woe.
But I am free of thee, at least, yea free!
No more thy bondager 'twixt heaven and hell!
No more there numbs, no more there shroudeth me
The paralysing horror of thy spell:
No more thy bondager 'twixt heaven and hell!
No more there numbs, no more there shroudeth me
The paralysing horror of thy spell:
No more win'st thou this last frail worshipping breath,
For twice dead he who dies this second death.
For twice dead he who dies this second death.
| Songs and poems (1909) | |