332
A DARK MONTH.
No intense
Joy to be,
In the sense
Of the sea—
In the pulses
Of her shocks
It repulses,
When its rocks
Thrill and ring
As with glee?
Has my king
Cast off me,
Whom no bird
Flying south
Brings one word
From his mouth?
Not the ghost
Of a word
Riding post
Have I heard,
Since the day
When my king
Took away
With him spring,
