STRAW for the food of souls your waggons cart, Yet none goes mad, none hopes, none will rebel! They pass, and what's for those who have watched well? Is this coarse fodder a true man's desert? Dumb as a mute, my soul; oh, break apart From bondage of things imminent; a drowned bell Tolls in the depths, and, like a murmuring shell Against mine ear drones the world's hollow heart. The crowd storms through the street, the last door closes, The good folk mumble ragged thanks, but never Rides sweet Forgiveness in the joyous train. Although the bitter frosts have hurt my roses, The spring has touched the wattles by the river, These have not failed; I'll go to them again. |