Poems (Hazlett-Bevis)/Sometimes

by Sophia Courtoulde Hazlett-Bevis

Sometimes.

Sometimes, when all about is still,
 And calmly wafts the evening air,
The pent-up feelings, and the will,
 Both prostrate lie in deep despair.
  Sometimes.

Sometimes, in spite of reins well held,
 Whose white-hand power is self-control,
With lips compressed, and bosom swelled
 With heart-ache hunger of the soul.
  Sometimes.

We cannot pray, we only moan,
 And lie in misery so abject—
With hands clasped tensely, cold as stone,
 And tears dried hotly—none suspect.
  Sometimes.

We long for death, a sudden hush
 To fall upon us as we sit;
Oblivion, without noise or crush,
 And thus the end, while shadows flit.
  Sometimes.

Perhaps the dearest hopes of earth,
 Our idols shattered, merest clay;
Long years of toil, that knew no girth,
 By lightest breeze are swept away.
  Sometimes.

We wonder if He knew or cared?
 It seems so to our breaking hearts,
Mocking the life that He hath spared.
 Thinking naught of that greater part.
  Sometimes.