Poems
I fed it with my blood as a little child
Is fed with mother's milk; there was no thought
More purposeful in all my wasted life—
(He pauses.)
A little measure of soul is left to me—
Enough to wander in the eternal woods,
And to gain strength and grow again and live—
But this small portion of my soul belongs
To that most dear, that best-belovéd dream.
Why does it not come for its share of life
(The shadow speaks, standing apart.)
Is fed with mother's milk; there was no thought
More purposeful in all my wasted life—
(He pauses.)
A little measure of soul is left to me—
Enough to wander in the eternal woods,
And to gain strength and grow again and live—
But this small portion of my soul belongs
To that most dear, that best-belovéd dream.
Why does it not come for its share of life
(The shadow speaks, standing apart.)
The Shadow
But of your very weakness I was born—
You clave to me, you gave me blood for milk,
Through the long nights and watches of the world
I was your beacon. Since you loved me so,
You clave to me, you gave me blood for milk,
Through the long nights and watches of the world
I was your beacon. Since you loved me so,
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