Nor a mourner present;

But a deep dark hollow

Where no fate weeps

Even fear is afraid to tread:

Fear-forsaken, hollow within hollow,

Even silence flees from me—

O, the pity of it!

[45]

[45]

38

POET

To distil a few golden drops of song

Through the gloom of this hour;

To filter true emotions

Through passion's burning fire

When the sun bubble-like fades in the west;

As our being craves for night's rest

That pool of silver in life's forest of distress.

To light some pale candles

In the cavern of a lonely isle

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