Les plus lus ▸
Ray Bremser
Now let's line out agony
1890 furnished room bare
of schmeck, her gone
down the cataract of
abstract force that pours
around us all & makes
these leaps we don't
control
nothing but our attitude
is ours & now my
mental anchor slips
from the muck of
time.
I squandered my time and got myself lost in the light of bliss, now I'm lost in the midst of departing agony.
From naked stones of agony
I will build a house for me;
As a mason all alone
I will raise it, stone by stone,
And every stone where I have bled
Will show a sign of dusky red.
I have not gone the way in vain,
For I have good of all my pain;
My spirit's quiet house will be
Built of naked stones I trod
On roads where I lost sight of God.
In the last year I have learned
How few men are worth my trust;
I have seen the friend I loved
Struck by death into the dust,
And fears I never knew before
Have knocked and knocked upon my door--
"I shall hope little and ask for less,"
I said, "There is no happiness."
I have grown wise at last--but how
Can I hide the gleam on the willow-bough,
Or keep the fragrance out of the rain
Now that April is here again?
When maples stand in a haze of fire
What can I say to the old desire,
What shall I do with the joy in me
That is born out of agony?
I KNOW the man without a soul :
He is happy as the day,
He is happy, people say.
He is happy — so they say :
But they do not see him roll
On the ground in very dole.
All along the ground in dole,
When no one is watching, he
Bites the ground in agony.
He bites the ground in agony :
But with people he is whole :
I know the man without a soul !
The rain is falling steadily
Upon the thirsty earth,
While dry-eyed, I remain, and calm
Amid my own heart's dearth.
Break! break! ! ye flood-gates of my tears
All pent in agony,
Rain, rain! upon my scorching soul
And flood it as the sea! !
The woes of flesh are naught
To one who knows
The agony of soul!
'Twere but the thud of wind and rain
Upon the roof.
The woes of flesh are naught
To one who knows!
A WIND comes from the north
Blowing little flocks of birds
Like spray across the town,
And a train, roaring forth,
Rushes stampeding down
With cries and flying curds
Of steam, out of the darkening north.
Whither I turn and set
Like a needle steadfastly,
Waiting ever to get
The news that she is free;
But ever fixed, as yet,
To the lode of her agony.