A Mood
The sun aslant the carpet, and the rainBlown sobbingly against the window glass,While I sit silent with a wordless pain,Pressing my heart between its iron hands.The slow hours pass. . .Between the dawn lands and the sunset landsMy soul walks wearily with aching eyes,The whole world grey about her where she stands!Sorrow and she are tired of the long noon,The sullen skies. . .My friend at work hums softly an old tune,And in the grate, new lit, a fluctuant firePuts forth pale pointed flame-flowers that full soonFret all the rough black coals to fairy goldOf tower and spire!Sunlight and firelight, but the world feels cold—The wet trees toss their weight of tumbled green;And shreds of torn cloud banners manifoldDrift up the dome of heaven, while slips the light,Pearl hued, between. . . .
. . . I
