 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
322
XVIII. THE DREAM OF A LIFE.
WRITTEN IN SICKNESS.
I wander in a thick-set wood alone—Tall, naked boles of trees around me crowd,
And overhead their branches weave a shroud
For the dead earth: ever I hear the moan
Of the sharp winter wind, or else the groan
Of some old tree that in past tempests bowed
And shaken to the root betrays aloud
Its coming fall. I find no friendly stone
That measures distance in this dreary wild;
No path is obvious to my drooping eyes;
Days, weeks, and years have gone since on me smiled
Unbroken light above; I sit, and rise;
Lie down or wander aimless: hope is gone;
Escape from this dark forest there is none.
June 1861.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |