At Braydon

Day wanes slowly;
On the hill no sound
Save the wind uttering
Chords low ... few ... profound.

How the west smokes and quivers!
It sears, it blinds my sight;
I am burned out wholly,
Hide me from the light.

Within dear arms yoke me,
Gather me. I am sped
Into your little bosom
Press, hide my childish head.

How long I have struggled
I know not; but the past
Seems twice livelong,
Beaten at the last!

My soul leaps and shudders
In pain none understands;
With your clear voice calm it,
Soothe it with your hands.

I can say only
--So lost am I, so distressed--
"I love you: I am tired."
You must guess the rest.

I love you: I am tired.
I give you my soul,
It hurts me. Hate has lamed it.
Take it; make it whole.