The Man who found Truth
With moaning cries sad clouds of brooding gloom.
And how through dripping leaves and waste perfume
Of torn lost flowers the beating raindrops fall
In measured cadence wild and musical,
And the sky heeds no more the earth's distress,
But more than all he felt the tenderness
Of twining weeds across his hands and feet—
Convolvulus, which panting still to meet
The Dryad's heart lays bare his own sad love
In heart-shaped foliage, and where perfumes move
Evident almost, honeysuckle wreaths—
And nightshade, which from Proserpine receives
A deadly gift of slumber—passionate
Wild branching ivy and, insatiate
Still after Love, the twining clematis—
And how through dripping leaves and waste perfume
Of torn lost flowers the beating raindrops fall
In measured cadence wild and musical,
And the sky heeds no more the earth's distress,
But more than all he felt the tenderness
Of twining weeds across his hands and feet—
Convolvulus, which panting still to meet
The Dryad's heart lays bare his own sad love
In heart-shaped foliage, and where perfumes move
Evident almost, honeysuckle wreaths—
And nightshade, which from Proserpine receives
A deadly gift of slumber—passionate
Wild branching ivy and, insatiate
Still after Love, the twining clematis—
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