THE FUGITIVE
7
The night deepens, the palace towers loom spectre-like, and the town hums wearily.
Row no more, but fasten the boat to a tree.
Let me seek rest in this strange land, dimly lying under the stars, where darkness tingles with the tinkle of a wristlet knocking against a water-jar.
4
O that I were stored with a secret, like unshed rain in summer clouds—a secret, folded up in silence, that I could wander away with.
O that I had some one to whisper to, where slow waters lap under trees that doze in the sun.
The hush this evening seems to expect a footfall, and you ask me for the cause of my tears.
I cannot give a reason why I weep, for that is a secret still withheld from me.
