In broideries of flowers and trees,
And rivers, blue and cool, that seem
To ripple as in fevered dream
Only to taunt the thirst and fly
From withered lip and lurid eye.
A hundred days, a hundred nights,—
The goal is further than before,
And all the changing shades and lights
Are wrought in Fancy's woof no more.
The sun is weary overhead,
And pallid deserts round you spread
A sorrowful eternity;
And if some grizzly mountains here
Confront your march with forms of fear,
You turn aside and pass them by.
And all are over-worn—the flesh
Is now a frayed and faded mesh
That will not mask the inward flame;
There is no longer any care
To round the speech, or speak men fair,
Or any gentle sense of shame;
The hearts of all are sifted through—
The grain drops through the windy husks,
And false lights flickering round the true
Are quenched at last in dews and dusks.
And some are silent, some are loud,
And rage like beasts among the crowd,—
And some are mild, and some are sharp
In word and deed, and snarl and carp,
And fret the camp with petty broils ;
While some of temper sweet and bland
And rivers, blue and cool, that seem
To ripple as in fevered dream
Only to taunt the thirst and fly
From withered lip and lurid eye.
A hundred days, a hundred nights,—
The goal is further than before,
And all the changing shades and lights
Are wrought in Fancy's woof no more.
The sun is weary overhead,
And pallid deserts round you spread
A sorrowful eternity;
And if some grizzly mountains here
Confront your march with forms of fear,
You turn aside and pass them by.
And all are over-worn—the flesh
Is now a frayed and faded mesh
That will not mask the inward flame;
There is no longer any care
To round the speech, or speak men fair,
Or any gentle sense of shame;
The hearts of all are sifted through—
The grain drops through the windy husks,
And false lights flickering round the true
Are quenched at last in dews and dusks.
And some are silent, some are loud,
And rage like beasts among the crowd,—
And some are mild, and some are sharp
In word and deed, and snarl and carp,
And fret the camp with petty broils ;
While some of temper sweet and bland
