 | Peace and other poems |  |
87
BY THE GROVE
As some strong tree that feels a burrowing worm
Bite at his heart, and hath no skill to pluck
The horror thence, but feels him drain and suck
The generous sap, and channel in the firm
Bite at his heart, and hath no skill to pluck
The horror thence, but feels him drain and suck
The generous sap, and channel in the firm
White wholesome wood, till all the trunk be full
Of crumbling dusty channels, and the leaves,
High home of crooning doves on windless eves,
Grow sere and thin, their burnished foliage dull—
Of crumbling dusty channels, and the leaves,
High home of crooning doves on windless eves,
Grow sere and thin, their burnished foliage dull—
88
Poor tree! he can but sicken where he stands
With dumb despairing patience; but for me,
When from the dark the boding voices call,
Though I be pierced and shattered, yet I fall
Back on the Heart that beats for me, the Hands
That made me, and the Will that bade me be.
With dumb despairing patience; but for me,
When from the dark the boding voices call,
Though I be pierced and shattered, yet I fall
Back on the Heart that beats for me, the Hands
That made me, and the Will that bade me be.
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