 | Sonnets of the Wingless Hours |  |
24
THE SUN-DIAL.
I.
The sun is shining through a hot white veil;
And round the faded sun-dial, on the face
Of this old Tuscan house, whose narrow space
Prisons my life, the pointing shade creeps pale.
And round the faded sun-dial, on the face
Of this old Tuscan house, whose narrow space
Prisons my life, the pointing shade creeps pale.
More sluggish than the dusty sun-baked snail,
On the same wall, it keeps its gnawing pace,
The shadow of a shade, faint as the trace
Of Life's lost pleasures, up the dull old scale.
On the same wall, it keeps its gnawing pace,
The shadow of a shade, faint as the trace
Of Life's lost pleasures, up the dull old scale.
Thou shade of woe, that creep'st at Fate's command,
Say, must the body wait till it be dead
To quit this numbing stretcher of disease?
Say, must the body wait till it be dead
To quit this numbing stretcher of disease?
Oh, is there no Isaiah in the land,
To raise me from this miserable bed
And make the shadow leap the ten degrees?
To raise me from this miserable bed
And make the shadow leap the ten degrees?
| Sonnets of the Wingless Hours | |