POETRY.
THE WANDERER.
MY heart is homeless as the wind And dark as Northern waters are, More desolate than midnight pools That never held a star.
Yet, like the uncompanioned sun That goeth forth from East to West, Or solitary virgin moon Arising from her rest To climb the steepest heights of cloud, Or drop upon an inland sea,
Beyond the ramparts of the world I wander lone and free. I've heard the cry of dead men's bones That clamour at the gates of morn ; And whimpering of naked smile Impatient to be born.
I know the dank and loathsome caves Of crouching Fear and writhing Shame ; And dreadful, oozy, songless swamps, The woods of Sunken Fame.
I've seen the shining galaxy Of mute, unrecognised worth, Apparent failures, bursting through The envelope of Earth.
I know the salt and bitter strand, The terrible No MoB,E's demesne Lit by the cold auroral flame Of love that might have been.
And in the silent Polar night, With ear against the icy ground, Behind the footsteps of Despair I've caught a deeper sound, Diffused as scent made audible And faint as far-off foreign peals—.
The tread of final Destiny, Hope's golden chariot wheels.
ANNA BuNsTow.
Previous page
