Sonnet IV
Up at his attic sill the South wind cameAnd days of sun and storm but never peace.Along the town’s tumultuous arteriesHe heard the heart-throbs of a sentient frame:Each night the whistles in the bay, the sameWhirl of incessant wheels and clanging cars:For smoke that half obscured, the circling starsBurnt like his youth with but a sickly flame.Up to his attic came the city cries—The throes with which her iron sinews heave—And yet forever behind prison doorsWelled in his heart and trembled in his eyesThe light that hangs on desert hills at eveAnd tints the sea on solitary shores…