The World’s Tragedy

66 THE WORLD’S TRAGEDY. — Ho ! What a whistle of wind Whirling the spumy scud Of the lake into a column of ecstasy ! Like a sharp spear it rushes up to me, And in my face it flutters like a dove Whispering strange words of love. It sunders me ! it cuts me — now, ah ! touch ! These empty arms that grope, that strain, that clutch Mere air, grow limp..... The wind is like a scythe That cuts its swathe through my green field, Even as I groan and writhe In the agony that pierces to the marrow. The wind ! the wind ! an arrow That hath smitten me through the shield — I float in mine own virgin tide Let loose — ah ! who are these that haunt me now, Tumbling from the desart brow Of the wild ensorcelled ridge, Like a warrior’s sacrilege ; Gnashing laughter sobbed or swelling To a pestilence of yelling, These gibbering apes that mop and mow And leap upon me ? Surely this is Fear