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A LOST SPIRIT
Published in the Theosophical Review London, England February 1909 (page 550)
A LOST SPIRIT
To Freda Wilson
I pass by darkened windy ways, Through bog and dripping heather; I flash before the silver rays The moon holds tight together. I sing beneath the waning moon; An ancient god-forgotten rune Springs to my lips to taste, and soon The way behind with light is strewn.
O silent city silver-lit, O rainy roads reflecting Tall houses where the old ghosts flit, Their shadows thin projecting Across my path—the street-lamps glare Before my soft eyes everywhere. Ah! men forget my face is fair, The tangled glory of my hair.
O sobbing wind! O hedges dark! O hills bereft and lonely! They’ve snatched the hidden boundary-mark, And left the ruins only. Dimly the flickering shadows stray Across the lonely hill-side way: Why should I weep and howl and pray? They sleep, and wait the empty day.
O dream of the red olden time! O clash of armour splendid!— A string of wind-begotten rime, And all their pain was ended! O lonely sea! O lonely earth! O dying art of glorious mirth! My song, my song is little worth To bring their bastard seed to birth!
What need of me in thunder-flash? What need in battle story? What need among the whitened ash Of old far-winnowed glory? They call me not to birth-bed throes; Invoke me not with gold and rose; The summer wanes, the summer grows, They call me not from fire or snows.
I linger by the cottage-door When twilight sings of sorrow; I flit around the gorse-strewn moor, And all the gold I borrow. But in mine eyes my doom is set, Yea! in their golden-glooming fret Is woven the divine regret, And ah! my birth-time is not yet. |