viii

Trust! Oh, I could have sunk to ground

And lain under his feet!

To have his praise was like a wound,

Throbbing and deadly sweet;

A wound that lets the welling blood

Ebb from the vein,

Merging the hurt in drowsihood,

And hushing down the pain.

High destiny of Nature's calling,

Foil'd and frustrate!

Just then the evil tide was crawling

To drown love in hate.

[Pg 35]

[Pg 35]

 V i 

V

V

i

The meadows wear a cloth of gold,

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