SAD WISDOM: FOUR YEARS OLD.
117
Whisper, whisper—I know he hears;
Yet this is hard to bear.
Yet this is hard to bear.
O world, with your wet face above
One veil of dust, thick-drawn!
O weird voice of the hapless dove,
Broken for something gone!—
Tell me, tell me, when will we love
The thing the sun shines on?
One veil of dust, thick-drawn!
O weird voice of the hapless dove,
Broken for something gone!—
Tell me, tell me, when will we love
The thing the sun shines on?
