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1 68 POEMS.
��XXX.
T FELT a funeral in my brain,
And mourners, to and fro, Kept treading, treading, till it seemed That sense was breaking through.
And when they all were seated,
A service like a drum Kept beating, beating, till I thought
My mind was going numb.
And then I heard them lift a box, And creak across my soul
With those same boots of lead, again. Then space began to toll
As all the heavens were a bell,
And Being but an ear, And I and silence some strange race,
Wrecked, solitary, here.
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