When I at youth’s expiry
Was struck abruptly down,
Felled of a curious sickness
And fever of the heart,
I darkly cursed the stars
And asked what ill renown
Had designated me
To suffer so apart.
Then in the huge asylum,
Walled in the sty of fear,
My curse died low against
The voice of the fallen crowd,
The incurable, intense,
Live, heart-stricken, queer
Beings of perfect pain
Who cry in shame aloud.
Here was the goodman held
In sinecure of grief,
A guerdon for the crimes
That he had left undone.
And body eats its pain,
And mind consumes belief,
Two gaunt in unknown guilt
That knots them one to one.
Time’s opening fall, I think,
Still crashes through these days,
Eternity’s bright chain:
We are broken, broken all.
And each in lengthening sorrow
Must learn to count the ways
Our lovely histories
Work downfall in the soul.
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