 | Sonnets of the Wingless Hours |  |
61
THE SILENT FELLOW.
‘Who art thou, silent brother? Art thou Pain,—
In face so like me; sitting on the bed
In which I lie?’—‘Pain for to-day has said
Good-night.’—‘Then Weariness?’—‘No; wrong again.’
In face so like me; sitting on the bed
In which I lie?’—‘Pain for to-day has said
Good-night.’—‘Then Weariness?’—‘No; wrong again.’
Thou hast a branch of bay, still wet with rain:
Art thou my former self, from years long fled?
Or Hope or Loneliness?’—‘No, Hope is dead,
And thy old self lies low in Time's dull plain.
Art thou my former self, from years long fled?
Or Hope or Loneliness?’—‘No, Hope is dead,
And thy old self lies low in Time's dull plain.
‘None of all these am I; although men say
I have a look of all. The part I play
Is to reflect what stronger gods control:
I have a look of all. The part I play
Is to reflect what stronger gods control:
‘I am thy Sonnet Spirit; and to-day
I bring a branch of Dead Sea fruit, not bay,
Plucked by the bitter waters of the soul.’
I bring a branch of Dead Sea fruit, not bay,
Plucked by the bitter waters of the soul.’
| Sonnets of the Wingless Hours | |