XIII. 'Poor faltering lines, my weary soul's relief' Poem by Robert Silliman Hillyer

XIII. 'Poor faltering lines, my weary soul's relief'



Poor faltering lines, my weary soul's relief,
The balm of passion, opiate of pain.
A mightier hand than mine, a mightier brain,
Had wrought in you an immemorial grief.
But though my love and art both prove in vain,
Wither and die with me, I had as lief
That it were so; respite however brief
Is all-sufficient to the living-slain.

For separate voices sink at eventide,
And none survives the creeping hush of time,
Nought lives but life; the fame of them that died
Brings back no vestige of their lovely prime,
Fame and oblivion shall merge again
In nameless loves and laughter, tears and pain.

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Robert Silliman Hillyer

Robert Silliman Hillyer

East Orange, New Jersey
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