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A NORTHERN MÆNAD
(The setting sun shines out.) Yon grave pines,—
Oh, the glamour, the bright glory
Vesting them! . . . thou passest! Pity,
O mere wood, O leaves I trampled,
Ye, the vision’d, me, the blind!
—Wilt thou mock me
As the village youths, and all the
Maidens? (Ah, how much less cruel
They, outcast who do but call me,
Call me, have not made me, mad!)
Mock me, then!
Weeps at home my Mother, and the
Cold fog crawls. But thou didst seek me
Once! I seek thee, Comrade, Comrade,
Till I find, or till I die!
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