Sometimes in the quiet of night
I walk again beneath the silent trees
And feel the road beneath me soft
Where the sun in all its length had never touched
Upon me; then rain all those wholesome smells,
Enwrapping my being in a scented sweetness
Till the strength of my present leaves me
And I am stilled inside. I see myself again,
A child, with lowered head
Walking quietly beneath some reaching pine-trees.
WRITTEN IN A BOARDING HOUSE
That a loneliness has driven me to the pen
I full well know. And am I aware
That this thing is in me. A thing rare
Flames about my heart as few will shape.
And am I glad for this talent to write
That comes but to a few men within a generation,
Yet while I sit behind these curtained windows
Looking out upon a narrow life
With hour upon solitary hour
Slipping by into the meadows
Of passed days, I wonder about my strife.
When I see the couples like blossoming flowers
Or the conversing friends secure
In the companionship of themselves
And think I or myself alone, like some immobility
Watching the actions of other men. The lure
In me is strong and the very cells
Yes the very cells of my body ache to be free.