Sonnet
To-day was but a dead day in my hands.Hour by hour did nothing more than pass,Mere idle winds above the faded grass.And I, as though a captive held in bands,Who, seeing a pageant, wonders much, but standsApart, saw the sun blaze his course with brassAnd sink into his fabled sea of glassWith glory of farewell to many lands.
Thou knowest, thou who talliest life by days,That I have suffered more than pain of toil,Ah, more than they whose wounds are soothed with oil,And they who see new light on beaten ways!The prisoner I, who grasps his iron barsAnd stares out into depth on depth of stars!