 | Poems |  |
LVII
AWAKE
The wailing wind doth not enough despair;
The Sea, for all her sobbing, hath the Moon,
I cannot find my heart's cry anywhere,
Fain to complain alone.
The Sea, for all her sobbing, hath the Moon,
I cannot find my heart's cry anywhere,
Fain to complain alone.
The whistle of the train that, like a dart,
Pierces the darkness as it hurries by,
Hath not enough of sadness, and my heart
Is stifled for a cry.
Pierces the darkness as it hurries by,
Hath not enough of sadness, and my heart
Is stifled for a cry.
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