THAT shadow, my likeness, that goes to and fro, seeking a livelihood,
How often I find myself standing and looking at it where it flits;
Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.
Had I the choice to tally greatest bards,
To limn their portraits, stately, beautiful, and emulate at will,
Homer with all his wars and warriors--Hector, Achilles, Ajax,
Or Shakespeare's woe-entangled Hamlet, Lear, Othello--Tennyson's fair ladies,
Tears! tears! tears!
In the night, in solitude, tears;
On the white shore dripping, dripping, suck'd in by the sand;
Again a verse for sake of you,
You soldiers in the ranks- you Volunteers,
Who bravely fighting, silent fell,
WHAT ship, puzzled at sea, cons for the true reckoning?
Or, coming in, to avoid the bars, and follow the channel, a perfect
SOMETIMES with one I love, I fill myself with rage, for fear I effuse
But now I think there is no unreturn'd love--the pay is certain, one
THAT music always round me, unceasing, unbeginning--yet long untaught
I did not hear;
But now the chorus I hear, and am elated;