"Thoughts in Loneliness"
I long for home. I seek where'er I go—
Not men-folk, but the fields where I would stray,
The stones where as a child I used to play.
Not men-folk, but the fields where I would stray,
The stones where as a child I used to play.
V.
The Shifting Self.
Each night my old self in the grave I lay
And get me another on waking.
With a hundred thoughts I begin the day,
Not one to my slumber-time taking.
'Twixt sorrow and joy I roam without pause;
I seem like a riddle, none dafter.
But lucky is he who for any cause,
Can burst into tears or laughter.
The Shifting Self.
Each night my old self in the grave I lay
And get me another on waking.
With a hundred thoughts I begin the day,
Not one to my slumber-time taking.
'Twixt sorrow and joy I roam without pause;
I seem like a riddle, none dafter.
But lucky is he who for any cause,
Can burst into tears or laughter.
VII.
My Mother.
As years would fade, I often kept returning
To an old empty house, deserted quite,
Its hundred windows burning
With vivid sunset light.
Opening and closing, anxiously I strayed there
From room to room, but found no clocks that swayed their
Bright pendulums, nor furniture beneath.
To the last room I came. Displayed there
Upon the wall in withered wreath
My Mother.
As years would fade, I often kept returning
To an old empty house, deserted quite,
Its hundred windows burning
With vivid sunset light.
Opening and closing, anxiously I strayed there
From room to room, but found no clocks that swayed their
Bright pendulums, nor furniture beneath.
To the last room I came. Displayed there
Upon the wall in withered wreath
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