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 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
165
A PARABLE.
There was a certain man who thought to dwell
Apart from all, in loveless solitude;
None roused him or had power to change his mood.
“Within the world, endowed with many a spell,
A sorcerer, whose name I will not tell,
Waits me,” he said; and no man understood.
So, for long months he dwelt in lonelihood,
Nor heeded how the seasons rose or fell.
Apart from all, in loveless solitude;
None roused him or had power to change his mood.
“Within the world, endowed with many a spell,
A sorcerer, whose name I will not tell,
Waits me,” he said; and no man understood.
So, for long months he dwelt in lonelihood,
Nor heeded how the seasons rose or fell.
He bore with memories, — a ghastly throng
That filled his sleepless nights and desolate days.
But, lo! that sorcerer, subtle as a flame,
Wound to him, hissing forth his awful name.
Then he, the man, so hunted, turned his face
And sought his kind that they might keep him strong.
That filled his sleepless nights and desolate days.
But, lo! that sorcerer, subtle as a flame,
Wound to him, hissing forth his awful name.
Then he, the man, so hunted, turned his face
And sought his kind that they might keep him strong.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |