 | Songs of A Wayfarer |  |
CCXVII. CAIN.
Pale as the moonset of a wintry morn,When swooning stars reel down the eastern sky,
He wanders, Cain the cursèd, wearily,
By rocky ways beset with many a thorn—
Dun lengths of stretching wilderness. Forlorn
Winds gasp and sob: the woods moan drearily,
As, sinking on the leaves to sleep, or die,
Gnawed by internal serpents, sick, forworn,
He dreams, and in his dream a bleeding Form
Bends over him, and asks with accents bland:
What hast thou, brother, on thy throbbing brow?
Then starting up aghast, roused by a storm
Of anguished throes, he feels the burning brand
Consume his brain and sense with fiery glow.
| Songs of A Wayfarer | |