Poems (Cromwell)/The Fugitive

by Gladys Cromwell

THE FUGITIVE

Fool, Fool,
 They can hear thy frighted feet,
 And they poke fun at thee,
   Or pity thee,
   Or pity thee.
 They can hear thy steps retreat,
 Shuffling timidly.

 Thy gait is hobbling and uncouth,
 For stubborn is earth's clay;
   There was a day,
   There was a day,
 When from the doom of its own youth,
 Thy spirit stole away.

 Do they not know thy spirit's home?
 Thy spirit, glancing, glides
   Beneath all tides,
   Beneath all tides.
 It is a coral under foam;
 In the cool deep it hides.

For lo, the yielding element
Of immortality
   Is like the sea,
   Is like the sea.
 Do they not hear, in wonderment,
 The tides enfolding thee?