Edward Rowland Sill (Эдвард Роулэнд Силл)
Alone
STILL earth turns and pulses stir, And each day hath its deed; But if I be dead to her, What is the life I lead? Cares the cuckoo for the wood, When the red leaves are down? Stays the robin near the brood, When they are fledged and flown? Yea, we live; the common air To both its bounty brings. Mockery! Can the absent share The half-forgotten things? Barren comfort fancy doles To him that truly sees; Sullen Earth can sever souls, Far as the Pleiades. Take thy toys, step-mother Earth,— Take force of limb and brain; All thy gifts are little worth, Till her I find again. Grass may spring and buds may stir,— Why should mine eyes take heed? For if I be dead to her, Then am I dead indeed.
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