She, brooding ever, dwells amidst the hills; Her kingdom is call'd Solitude; her name -- More terrible than desolating flame -- Is Silence; and her soul is Pain. Day after day some weightier sorrow fills Her heart, and each new hour she knows The birth of further woes. And whoso, journeying, goes Unto the land wherein she dwells for aye Shall not come thence until have passed away For evermore the bright joy of his years. She giveth rest, but giveth it with tears, Tears that more bitter be Than drops of the Dead Sea: But never gives she peace to any soul For how could she that rarest gift bestow Who well doth know That though in dreams she can attain the goal, In dreams alone her steps can thither go: -- Solitude, Silence, Pain, for all who live Within the twilit realms that are her own, And even Rest to those who seek her throne, But these her gifts alone: Peace hath she not and therefore cannot give. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CAVALIER TUNES: MARCHING ALONG by ROBERT BROWNING FREEDOM AND LOVE by THOMAS CAMPBELL THE CHURCH WINDOWS by GEORGE HERBERT A QUOI BON DIRE by CHARLOTTE MEW BLIGHTERS by SIEGFRIED SASSOON CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE WORKHOUSE by GEORGE ROBERT SIMS BALLDE DES PENDUS by THEODORE FAULLAIN DE BANVILLE |