The eyes of more than Tilbury Town, Seeing too much to trust their ears, Had watched him, with a ghostly frown, Walking among his ghostly peers. For years, they saw him dim, distraught, Torn by himself and various labors; But what they said or what they thought Could not be gathered from his neighbors. Yet there were some who told of strange Communions at incredible hours, In which, one heard, he would exchange Small talk with far from heavenly powers. Rumor, in dark and dubious tones, Had croaked, though no one would affirm it, He brewed new wine from old dried bones And sang queer ballads for a hermit. And others, still more circumspect, Controlled themselves with his control; Or if they chanced to recollect The vision of a fettered soul That burst its bonds and, unafraid, Struck out to save itself from drowning, Chose to consider it a shade And crossed themselves and muttered "Browning." Meanwhile, the rest of us who stood Gnawing our fingers in confusion, Busied ourselves as best we could And hurried him to his seclusion. We could not stop to see him rise, We who could only see the prison, Heedless of unsuspected skies In which another star had risen. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A LITTLE BOY LOST, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE THE IMMORTAL MIND by GEORGE GORDON BYRON HASTE NOT! REST NOT! by JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE WHAT THE ENGINE SAYS by ALEXANDER ANDERSON SANCTUARY by JOSIE CRAIG BERRY TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 2. AMONG THE FERNS by EDWARD CARPENTER |