Page:Poems by Isaac Rosenberg (1922).djvu/172



Dim apprehension of a trust Comes over me this quiet hour, As though the silence were a flower, And this, its perfume, dark like dust.

My individual self would cling Through fear, through pride, unto its fears: It strives to shut out what it hears, The founts of being murmuring.

O! Need, whose hauntings terrorize; Whether my maiden ways would hide, Or lose and to that need subside, Life shrinks and instinct dreads surprise.