. Maud, Locksley hall, and other poems . will show itself without. Then I rise, the eavedrops the yellow vapours chokeThe great city sounding wide;The day comes, a dull red ballWrapt in drifts of lurid smokeOn the misty river-tide. 74 Maud; Thro the hubbub of the market I steal, a wasted frame, It crosses here, it crosses there, Thro all that crowd confused and loud, The shadow still the same ; And on my heavy eyelids My anguish hangs like shame. Alas for her that met me, That heard me softly call. Came glimmering thro the laurels At the quiet evenfall, In the garden by the turrets Of
. Maud, Locksley hall, and other poems . will show itself without. Then I rise, the eavedrops the yellow vapours chokeThe great city sounding wide;The day comes, a dull red ballWrapt in drifts of lurid smokeOn the misty river-tide. 74 Maud; Thro the hubbub of the market I steal, a wasted frame, It crosses here, it crosses there, Thro all that crowd confused and loud, The shadow still the same ; And on my heavy eyelids My anguish hangs like shame. Alas for her that met me, That heard me softly call. Came glimmering thro the laurels At the quiet evenfall, In the garden by the turrets Of the old manorial hall. Would the happy spirit the realms of light and song,In the chamber or the street,As she looks among the I fear to greet my friendOr to say Forgive the wrong,Or to ask her, Take me, sweet,To the regions of thy rest ? A Monodratna. 75 But the broad light glares and beats,And the shadow flits and fleetsAnd will not let me be;And I loathe the squares and streets,And the faces that one meets,. and I LOATHE THE SQUARES AND STREETS. Hearts with no love for me :Always I long to creepInto some still cavern deep,There to weep, and weep, and weepMy whole soul out to thee. 76 Maud; V. Dead, long dead, Long dead! And my heart is a handful of dust. And the wheels go over my head. And my bones are shaken with pain. For into a shallow grave they are thrust. Only a yard beneath the street. And the hoofs of the horses beat, beat, The hoofs of the horses beat, Beat into my scalp and my brain, With never an end to the stream of passing feet, Driving, hurrying, marrying, burying, Clamour and rumble, and ringing and clatter. And here beneath it is all as bad. For I thought the dead had peace, but it is not so To have no peace in the grave, is that not sad ? But up and down and to and fro. Ever about me the dead men go ; And then to hear a dead man chatter Is enough to drive one mad. II. Wretchedest age, since time began,They cannot even bury a man ;
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