The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/He Stood Alone
He Stood Alone.
He stood alone in an unpitying crowd—
His mates fell from him, as the grub-worms drop
From the green stalk that once had nourished them,
But now is withered and all rottenness
Because it gave such shelter. Pleasure's train—
The light-winged tribes that seek the sunshine only—
No more endeavoured from his eye to win
The smile of approbation. Grief and Care
Stalked forth upon the theatre of his heart,
In many a gloomy and mishapen guise,
Till of the glories of his earlier self
The world, his base and hollow auditory,
Left but a ghastly phantom. As a tree,
A goodly tree—that stricken is and wasted,
By elemental conflicts—falls at last,
Even in the fulness of its branching honours,
Prostrate before the storm—yet majestic
In its huge downfal, so, at last, fell he!