by Joseph Ignatius Constantine Clarke
If ye have hearts, find ruth for me,
Ye who in my gray eyes see desire.
I would hide it for the dark,
Where its relentless fire
Might smolder inward, and its mark
And sear no man should wondering see.
Oh, pity me.
For what, for whom the sheer light glows
Startling, starry in mine eyes of gray
It would slay me did you ask:
For when its passion-play
Is maddest, and breaks down the mask
I d lift to screen my heart s vain throes,
My pain who knows?
O dumb woe of the isolate!
Stifled voice amid the shouting crowd!
I can cry not, near or far.
Yea, cannot tell aloud
To wood or sky or stream or star
What stands beyond the rusted gate
Fast-locked by fate.
And ye might mock me if I told.
Dawn-rays streaming out of perished suns
Were real things beside
What wish-wild thro me runs,
Lashing and trampling on my pride.
Yet you'd see ruin touched with gold,
Could you behold.
Last updated January 14, 2019