The Fellowship Of Suffering

O weary child of man, O mortal friend, Afar, unseen, by road or river-bend, By mountain, plain, or city, still the same, Human, unfriended, with the piercing flame Of endless sorrow in thine aching heart: Hear me, for unto thee my spirit yearns; Touch me, behold me, where the twilight turns, Uplifting white arms to the tireless morn: Hear me, for in thy torment I am torn; Hear me, for in thy passion I have part.

O child, O child, how sadly sang the world Its old old song of keen cold carelessness, How blindly blew the wind of loneliness About thy soul in frozen garments furled; How with pale speechless lips and wan didst pace Crushing beneath thy days that deadly feud; How to the bitter wall didst turn thy face, Glad from the glances of the multitude.

Ah! here or there; the same sad song of woe, More desolate than world-despair or death, The cry of souls the cruel sun severeth, The moan of love to madness smitten low. Ah, here or there; the same sad end of things, The same fond fruitless ineffectual life, High-feathered hope and passionate pulse of wings, Chill sorrow, failure, and despairing strife.

Behold, beyond the mountains of the West, Where sparkle white domes of the purple hills, The light of evening Earth’s broad bosom fills And like a golden dove broods o’er her breast, And fades, afar--for you and me, afar,-- Shared token of our common deep desire, Which fadeth not, but like a beacon-star Devours the darkness of our hearts with fire.

1872.