Poetry Archives

To-day was but a dead day in my hands.
 Hour by hour did nothing more than pass,
 Mere idle winds above the faded grass.
And I, as though a captive held in bands,
Who, seeing a pageant, wonders much, but stands
 Apart, saw the sun blaze his course with brass
 And sink into his fabled sea of glass
With glory of farewell to many lands.

Thou knowest, thou who talliest life by days,
 That I have suffered more than pain of toil,
 Ah, more than they whose wounds are soothed with oil,
And they who see new light on beaten ways!
The prisoner I, who grasps his iron bars
And stares out into depth on depth of stars!