Crippled is the will of unto whom is woe,
protests he in envy of all souls sleeping;
“Of what doth ye care, and why if ist so?
saved art thou from it, only ye dreaming.”
Fades the hour of whom it cannot wake,
thinks he in rebuttal of those who tempt;
“What canst thou yearn, for heavens sake
O if only ye dreamt, O if only ye dreamt.”
Ti’s a pity for pity to not find,
in an hour such as this its way
to those who adhered in its hind
and lead the bleak souls of dismay,
from fates blackened, vacant hope,
joyless aim, and aimless hunger,
into such hopes which did elope
with equal lives fore them asunder.
Doth not suffice for wretchedness
to have such monuments in woe,
but as its wonting shall it dress
all glory red, for us to know.
I watch their children emerging
with languid eyes and weary airs
from their fathers side weeping
to bleed in their due place unfair.
I hope for children of their thence
I fear for children their instead
host to fates made recompense
for our fates all else I dread.
Who are they, who muffled suffer,
tears of whom know slumber none,
life whom perchance silenced utter
which hath found its rest in some,
for those in whom is yet to set,
those who have not yet to feign
apathy to the breath of death
I fear have found in departing gain.
“How beauty lies of a dream within
conceiving it, but not to live in.
Although its swansong’s heard intent,
shall birthen not but discontent.”