Holy of holies Confessions of an anarchist [by J. E. Barlas] |
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41
XXXVII.
[Not for itself the wild bird thrills the grove.]
Not for itself the wild bird thrills the grove.To stir sweet sympathy, to lure some mate,
The small breast throbs, with love and joy elate,
And to some sister pines the brooding dove.
But, barred out from its kind, beneath, above,
E'en in this lonely, hopeless, piteous state,
The baffled instinct fights in vain with fate.
He sings apart to his own dream of love.
And so shall I. Thrice prisoned by my curse,
My fate, my sin, within my own locked heart,
To life-long solitude doomed though I seem;
Yet I shall ever in my bosom nurse
My fair ideal, high, unmoved, apart;
Yet I shall sing forever to my dream.
March 14th, 1886.
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