by Robert Laurence Binyon
What shall I say to thee, my spirit, so soon dejected,
Unaccountably conquered, where thou seemed'st strong?
Life, that, yesterday, the sun's own glory reflected,
Darkened now, like a train of captives, crawls along.
Alas! 'tis an old trouble, vainly drugged to sleep.
Let it wake outright; be proved, confronted, known.
Desire however endless, love however deep
Still must search and hunger: thou art still alone.
Alone, alone! Ah, little avails with childish tears
In the night's silent darkness to struggle against thy pain;
With hands stretched out in a prayer that seems to reach no ears,
And desolate repetition of that forlorn refrain.
Alone into the world thou camest, and wast not afraid.
Out of it must thou go, with no hand to clasp thine.
Thou fear'st not death: why now need'st thou another's aid
To live thine own life out, nor falter and repine?
Last updated January 14, 2019