 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
61
WASTE
Blind fate, that broodest over human things,
That through thy long inheritance of tears
Dost bring to birth, through sad and shapeless years,
One poet, heart and voice: but ere he sings,
That through thy long inheritance of tears
Dost bring to birth, through sad and shapeless years,
One poet, heart and voice: but ere he sings,
Thou dost delight to sever, to estrange,
To bid the restless brain reluctant sleep,
And toss his glories to the common heap,
Waiting thy leisure, and the world's slow change.
To bid the restless brain reluctant sleep,
And toss his glories to the common heap,
Waiting thy leisure, and the world's slow change.
As some dishevelled garden, when the frost
Crusts the dry turf, and blunders through the lines
Of summer's green battalions, laying low
The towering lupines that untimely blow;
And o'er the leaves in rich disorder tossed
The unavailing sun in mockery shines.
Crusts the dry turf, and blunders through the lines
Of summer's green battalions, laying low
The towering lupines that untimely blow;
And o'er the leaves in rich disorder tossed
The unavailing sun in mockery shines.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |