O LIFTED face of mute appeal! Poor tongueless pantomime of prayer! O sullen sea, whose deeps conceal The children of despair! O heart that will not look above! Poor staggering feet that seek the wave! I would come quick, if I were Love, And I had power to save. O sinking sunset loneliness Aflame in hot, unmoving eyes! Poor wan lips, creeping in distress To cover up your cries! O broken speech, and sobbing breath! Poor restless and uncertain will! I would come quick, if I were Death, And I had power to kill! |