Holy of holies Confessions of an anarchist [by J. E. Barlas] |
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28
XXIV.
[Love's hand is heavy on me. Woe that hope]
Love's hand is heavy on me. Woe that hopeLove's proper bride, should suffer cold divorce,
And love go lonely on his wintry course,
A death-drowsed pilgrim fiercely bent to cope
With the snow-laden whirlwind up the slope;
Before, the bare chill years of long remorse,
Which the world-weary feet must climb perforce;
Behind, the prints where grief long bore to grope,
The slow-effacing prints of sorrows old,
Branded in weary patience day by day,
Which softly-falling moments slowly fill,—
Flake after flake oblivion falling cold,
Till e'en our holy griefs are passed away,
And the blank waste lies desolate and still.
Jan. 30th, 1886
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