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THE SORROWFUL WORLD. 189
The very pauses, when they came, were rife With sickening sounds of too successful strife, As, when the clash of battle dies away, The groans of night succeed the shrieks of day.
Man's scent the untamed creatures scarce can bear,
As if his tainted blood defiled the air;
In the vast woods they fret as in a cage,
Or fly in fear, or gnash their teeth with rage.
The beasts of burden linger on their way, Like slaves who will not speak when they obey; Their faces, when their looks to us they raise, With something of reproachful patience gaze.
All creatures round us seem to disapprove; Their eyes discomfort us with lack of love; Our very rights, with signs like these alloyed, Not without sad misgivings are enjoyed.
Earth seems to make a sound in places lone, Sleeps through the day, but wakes at night to moan, Shunning our confidence, as if we were A guilty burden it could hardly bear.
The winds can never sing, but they must wail; Waters lift up sad voices in the vale; One mountain-hollow to another calls With broken cries of plaining waterfalls. |
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