WHAT souls there be, what dark things hover-
ing
Within my flesh I know not, yet they cry
Alive although they voice my grief and sigh
Deeming my sorrow all their own, who bring
Each ashen morn a leaden faith to cling
About our hours of passion wrought to die.
– Miscreant faith! – I live: they know not why;
And ever they, their reasons clamouring.
Hear but strange echoes wrung from lips that sing
Blanched nightmares of delight, of deeps that He
Beneath divine compassion, of joys that wing
Above young hope’s expression and deny
Even my care; and they, though I am I,
Share deed and will with all my languishing.
(E J Rupert Atkinson)
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