SONNET—THE O'ERBURDENED SOUL
Where art thou going, thou o'erburdened soul,
With that exceeding sorrow on thy brow?
I know thee that thy spirit walketh now,
Clad like a mourner in his sable stole
With those old sins, whose thousand voices roll
Floods of reproach upon thee, until thou
Art fain to fling thyself to earth and bow
Beneath the shock thou seek'st not to control.
Oh, follow not that broken-hearted ghost
So far into the desert of Despair.
Not such the atonement to the dead thou ow'st.
For whose sake make the living souls thy care.
Go forth redeeming each past drop of hers
By scattering round thy path kind words to present tears.
With that exceeding sorrow on thy brow?
I know thee that thy spirit walketh now,
Clad like a mourner in his sable stole
With those old sins, whose thousand voices roll
Floods of reproach upon thee, until thou
Art fain to fling thyself to earth and bow
Beneath the shock thou seek'st not to control.
Oh, follow not that broken-hearted ghost
So far into the desert of Despair.
Not such the atonement to the dead thou ow'st.
For whose sake make the living souls thy care.
Go forth redeeming each past drop of hers
By scattering round thy path kind words to present tears.
April 14, 1844.
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