Lament of the Lost Mate Caged

Rocked in the cradle of my own unreality
I watch the seasons swing by
And as the leaves of the years fall in russet monotony
I remember not the inward fires that gripe the bowels of earth,
I am cold to the breath of autumn stirring the dullness of gorse-scent in the valleys,
The long relentless pulse of ocean whispers me no secret passion.
I am blind to the writhing quickening upheaving of the grass-swift hills,
The earth's windflung hair hides no furtive nest, but a lone furrowed scar
The deep trees utter no joyous tranquillity of shade, nor the waters their accustomed song—
The surge of unstarred everlasting night envelops, over-whelms me, rolls over me to its uttermost brim—
O love, this world of silence hears not my throbbing throat!
O heart, my driven heart, our love is done.

W.W.