Page:Poems·from·the·Port·Hills-Blanche·Edith·Baughan-1923.pdf/8

 Falling....the crash! the struggle with horrors, impossible, real! The bright flight brought to its end by the gloom of a prison-cell.

Free now, back on his rock, at home, yet in prison for ever, Listless he lay, and gazed on the once-belov’d fair prospect Languidly, savouring nothing, Disgrace, like a dingy fog-shroud, Blotting all beauty out. Dully he look’d at the bright Blue, At the gorse’s gaiety scowl’d; and his eye slunk from the snow-peaks And the frank face of the sea, but amid the plain like a culprit Furtively spied, till it found the prison, and there like a chain’d thing Hung, all helpless awhile—then, fled to a near-by hill-crest, Seen as a vision, how bright! in those nights of desperate darkness, Truly in sight now at last, and to-morrow, to-morrow, thank Heaven! Last of all sights to be! for it fronted fathomless water, The hiding sea would be all, and life and self-loathing done!.... ....A honey-bee boom’d o’er the tussock, and sipp’d at the blossoming shamrock; He look’d and beheld the blossoms bruis’d by his twisting fingers,