Poems
(A shadow bends down and kisses the Man's lips. It absorbs a portion of his life and rises, a tangible shape. Another voice sounds.)
The Voice
I have grown weary waiting for my life.
It is most pitiful to feel the pulse
Of some rich, passionate, human heart, not mine—
The tender infinite cries of human souls—
The fervent happiness of human lips;
These things are borne to me from distant spheres,
And you must yield your soul to guide me thither.
It is most pitiful to feel the pulse
Of some rich, passionate, human heart, not mine—
The tender infinite cries of human souls—
The fervent happiness of human lips;
These things are borne to me from distant spheres,
And you must yield your soul to guide me thither.
The Man
Spirits are sterile things, and need not life,
Nor tears, nor clashing discords of the world.
Nor tears, nor clashing discords of the world.
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