Vi

What alters with my changing? Not José, Content in little duties that he loves. Not Marta’s dimming eyes that stare away Beyond the tranquil court, the circling doves.

I, too, I float on peace, forget almost, And then as drowning sight may pierce the sea To find the sun a green and wavering ghost, And shapes of earth distorted monstrously,--

I see a mocking earth, a sun distraught, I lose the buoying instant of relief And sink again as wearying soul and thought Drown in the sick amazement of my grief.