Whence came his feet into my field, and why? How is it that he sees it all so drear? How do I see his seeing, and how hear The name his bitter silence knows it by? This was the little fold of separate sky Whose pasturing clouds in the soul`s atmosphere Drew living light from one continual year: How should he find it lifeless? He, or I? Lo! this new Self now wanders round my field, With plaints for every flower, and for each tree A moan, the sighing wind`s auxiliary: And o`er sweet waters of my life, that yield Unto his lips no draught but tears unseal`d, Even in my place he weeps. Even I, not he.SourceThe script ran 0.011 seconds.
The script ran 0.011 seconds.
