66 
THE WORLD’S TRAGEDY. 
 
— Ho !  What a whistle of wind  
Whirling the spumy scud 
Of the lake into a column of ecstasy ! 
Like a sharp spear it rushes up to me, 
And in my face it flutters like a dove 
Whispering strange words of love. 
It sunders me !  it cuts me — now, ah !  touch ! 
These empty arms that grope, that strain, that clutch 
Mere air, grow limp..... 
The wind is like a scythe 
That cuts its swathe through my green field,  
Even as I groan and writhe  
In the agony that pierces to the marrow.  
The wind !  the wind !  an arrow  
That hath smitten me through the shield — 
I float in mine own virgin tide  
Let loose — ah !  who are these that haunt me now,  
Tumbling from the desart brow  
Of the wild ensorcelled ridge,  
Like a warrior’s sacrilege ;  
Gnashing laughter sobbed or swelling  
To a pestilence of yelling,  
These gibbering apes that mop and mow  
And leap upon me ?  Surely this is Fear