 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
I
This is my chiefest torment, that behind
This brave and subtle spirit, this swift brain,
There sits and shivers, in a cell of pain,
A central atom, melancholy, blind,
This brave and subtle spirit, this swift brain,
There sits and shivers, in a cell of pain,
A central atom, melancholy, blind,
Which is myself: tho' when spring suns are kind,
And rich leaves riot in the genial rain,
I cheat him dreaming, slip my rigorous chain,
Free as a skiff before the dancing wind.
And rich leaves riot in the genial rain,
I cheat him dreaming, slip my rigorous chain,
Free as a skiff before the dancing wind.
Then he awakes, and vexed that I am glad,
In dreary malice strains some nimble chord,
Pricks his thin claw within some tingling nerve:
And all at once I falter, start, and swerve
From my true course, and fall, unmanned and sad,
Into gross darkness, tangible, abhorred.
In dreary malice strains some nimble chord,
Pricks his thin claw within some tingling nerve:
And all at once I falter, start, and swerve
From my true course, and fall, unmanned and sad,
Into gross darkness, tangible, abhorred.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |