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From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were — I have not seen
As others saw — I could not bring
‘O Jesus Christ! I’m hit,’ he said; and died.
Whether he vainly cursed, or prayed indeed,
The Bullets chirped — In vain! vain! vain!
Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
I
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
I am — yet what I am none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes —
So, we’ll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;
That only men incredulous of despair,
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air
Shall earth no more inspire thee,
Thou lonely dreamer now?
Since passion may not fire thee
