Out of Sleep

From out dream-haunted coverts of dim sleep
A spirit staggers blindly toward the day.
Once more to face the old, unchanged dismay, —
Once more to climb Life's desolate road and steep;
To sow his difficult field, and not to reap;
To look far up the dark and tedious way.
To see Death waiting at the end; to pray
That he may know prayer's worth; to watch and weep;

To linger in the once familiar place;
To talk with ghosts, — frail ghosts that come and flee,
Some with kind eyes, some with reproachful gaze, —
To see his unburied past stretched wretchedly
Across his path; and still forever face
Each pitiless day, till days no more shall be.