Page:Collected poems vol 1 de la mare.djvu/199

 hy did you flutter in vain hope, poor bird,
 * Hard-pressed in your small cage of clay?

'Twas but a sweet, false echo that you heard,
 * Caught only a feint of day.

Still is the night all dark, a homeless dark.
 * Burn yet the unanswering stars. And silence brings

The same sea's desolate surge — sans bound or mark —
 * Of all your wanderings.

Fret now no more; be still. Those steadfast eyes,
 * Those folded hands, they cannot set you free;

Only with beauty wake wild memories —
 * Sorrow for where you are, for where you would be.