Alone
E
Edward Rowland Sill
0
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STILL earth turns and pulses stir,
And each day hath its deed;
But if I be dead to her,
What is the life I lead?
Cares the cuckoo for the wood,
When the red leaves are down?
Stays the robin near the brood,
When they are fledged and flown?
Yea, we live; the common air
To both its bounty brings.
Mockery! Can the absent share
The half-forgotten things?
Barren comfort fancy doles
To him that truly sees;
Sullen Earth can sever souls,
Far as the Pleiades.
Take thy toys, step-mother Earth,—
Take force of limb and brain;
All thy gifts are little worth,
Till her I find again.
Grass may spring and buds may stir,—
Why should mine eyes take heed?
For if I be dead to her,
Then am I dead indeed.
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