Carmen Sylva

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TO toss with fevered brain and throbbing pulses
Upon thy bed at night—thine aching eyes,
Straining into the darkness, hot and weary,
Thy heart like lead, yet ever wildly bounding
Within thee, like a gun made loose in shipwreck,
That rolls from side to side, an unchained danger,
Thy pillows fire, thy couch a rack, whereon
Thy tortured limbs seem cords strung by the storm,
Thy thoughts a tangled skein, unclear, disordered,
And all the past that should have been forgotten
Rising up ghostly, in fantastic guise,
To make the present worse, to slay all hope,
To quench the beacon that till now has been
Thy only stay in night's deep gloom and horror!
This, O my soul! is Unrest, and thou knowest
Its misery but too well! All the old scars
Of former battles bleed once more within thee,
As if thy life were oozing, drop by drop.
And thou wert fain with trembling fingers seize
That foolish heart, and fling it in thy path
To trample under foot, or, further still,
Sink it in sea-depths, and then turn away
Calm and indifferent, deeming all were well
Were but its restlessness thus stilled, and thou
Free from its tumult.
Yet that heart of thine
Has weathered may a gale, and still might stand
Unshaken at the helm of life's wrecked craft,
A gallant pilot, waiting for the sign
That bids the clouds disperse, hushes the winds,
And, having calmed the waves, shall guide thy course
To sun-lit shores, sweet with immortal flowers.
Be brave, poor heart, for thou drawest near the haven,
And though thy beacon be extinguished, though
Thy rudder has been snapped, thy compass lost,
Thou still art safe, for the same Mighty Hand
That sent thee forth upon the stormy sea
Shall lead thee home and give thee rest at last!

Colston & Coy. Limited, Printers, Edinburgh