 | Poems Real and Ideal |  |
109
IV. THE ONE STAR.
There are sad places where no star-beam shines,
Waste desolate abysses of the dark,
Where no glad light the wandering soul may mark,—
Whereover the black waves in stormy lines
Pour ceaselessly:—spots where no angel's foot
Has trodden; lurid as deep deadly mines:
Hell-pits wherein the lingering captive pines;
Devoid of buds and flowers and gracious fruit.
Waste desolate abysses of the dark,
Where no glad light the wandering soul may mark,—
Whereover the black waves in stormy lines
Pour ceaselessly:—spots where no angel's foot
Has trodden; lurid as deep deadly mines:
Hell-pits wherein the lingering captive pines;
Devoid of buds and flowers and gracious fruit.
What star can light them, or what step traverse
These regions branded with a mystic curse?
What help can reach the prisoners therein bound,—
Cold pulses there shall throb at what glad sound?
What flame, what fire, can comfort there impart?
Only the sweet fire of a woman's heart.
These regions branded with a mystic curse?
What help can reach the prisoners therein bound,—
Cold pulses there shall throb at what glad sound?
What flame, what fire, can comfort there impart?
Only the sweet fire of a woman's heart.
| Poems Real and Ideal | |