Poems (Cromwell)/The Weakling
THE WEAKLING
Confined within the walls of a grey world,
And never from that iron realm allowed,
My powers were wasted; I was broken, bowed:
Throughout the years my strength and will were furled.
But later, when the force of time had hurled
All barriers down, released me from the cloud
That held my spirit, left me free, endowed
With latitudes of love, my spirit whirled
Bewildered round itself. In that dear field
I had not strength nor will to stand revealed,
Nor claim deliverance. Self-pity drew
Me to my doom. I was beset anew;
I was afraid—afraid that love would see
What all those iron years had done to me.
And never from that iron realm allowed,
My powers were wasted; I was broken, bowed:
Throughout the years my strength and will were furled.
But later, when the force of time had hurled
All barriers down, released me from the cloud
That held my spirit, left me free, endowed
With latitudes of love, my spirit whirled
Bewildered round itself. In that dear field
I had not strength nor will to stand revealed,
Nor claim deliverance. Self-pity drew
Me to my doom. I was beset anew;
I was afraid—afraid that love would see
What all those iron years had done to me.