Of days like, each to each. It is in vain
That I do keep my dagger sharp and bright
For I shall never sheathe it in his breast.
I dread the stubborn days’ relentless round,
The dazzling sunlight on the waves that dance
To mock my soul that shall not dance again;
The days are twice as long as may be borne,
Yet must be borne. Sometimes I even laugh
To see how small a thing a man’s life is.
The nights are loneliest. The buoyant stars