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A Poem of Exile
I COUNT in prison the days and nights
And then forget the count.
How heavily, Oh Lord,
Do these days pass!
And the years flow after them,
Quietly they flow,
Bearing with them
Good and ill.
Everything do they gather
Never do they return.
You need not plead.
Your prayers unanswered fall.
Mid oozy swamps
among the weeds
Year after weary year
has sadly flowed.
Much of something have they taken
From dark store-house of my heart;
Borne it quietly to the sea,
As quietly the sea swallowed it.
Not gold and silver
Did they take from me,
But good years of mine
Freighted with loneliness,
