Poems
And now they drive me even to their own land,
And I must yield my soul.
(He is surrounded by indefinite forms which gradually grow more distinct. Eyes gaze at him, hands stretch towards him. He no longer tries to escape, but remains motionless. A voice now rises from the multitude.)
And I must yield my soul.
(He is surrounded by indefinite forms which gradually grow more distinct. Eyes gaze at him, hands stretch towards him. He no longer tries to escape, but remains motionless. A voice now rises from the multitude.)
The Voice
Where is my life?
The Man
My soul
Conceived you in the thoughtless Spring, then came
The wasted Summer feverish with drought—
I had no longer power to bring you forth.
My soul
Conceived you in the thoughtless Spring, then came
The wasted Summer feverish with drought—
I had no longer power to bring you forth.
The Voice
You said: 'I will make a blossom of the world—
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