 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
157
VAIN DELAY.
In every thought of comfort I essayed,
I found some subtle evil, some base thing
Unclean, most virulent, and sharp to sting:
Surely too long with these I have delayed;
Yea, as a child who far from home has strayed,
In some great forest lost and lingering,
Expectant of the birds that will not sing,
When night comes on grows terribly afraid
I found some subtle evil, some base thing
Unclean, most virulent, and sharp to sting:
Surely too long with these I have delayed;
Yea, as a child who far from home has strayed,
In some great forest lost and lingering,
Expectant of the birds that will not sing,
When night comes on grows terribly afraid
And cries for home,—so seems to me my soul.
Surely the child returned will no more stray?
Surely my heart once more in the right way
Will keep most steadfastly in view its goal?
Yet cry, lost child, for one to lead thee back;
And thou, Love, point my soul again its track.
Surely the child returned will no more stray?
Surely my heart once more in the right way
Will keep most steadfastly in view its goal?
Yet cry, lost child, for one to lead thee back;
And thou, Love, point my soul again its track.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |