Page:Verses–Blanche·Baughan-1898.pdf/108

 (The setting sun shines out.) Yon grave pines,— Oh, the glamour, the bright glory Vesting them! . . . thou passest! Pity, O mere wood, O leaves I trampled, Ye, the vision’d, me, the blind!

—Wilt thou mock me As the village youths, and all the Maidens? (Ah, how much less cruel They, outcast who do but call me, Call me, have not made me, mad!)

Mock me, then! Weeps at home my Mother, and the Cold fog crawls. But thou didst seek me Once! I seek thee, Comrade, Comrade, Till I find, or till I die!