I.--At Braydon

Day wanes slowly; On the hill no sound Save the wind uttering Chords low ... few ... profound.

How the west smokes and quivers! It sears, it blinds my sight; I am burned out wholly, Hide me from the light.

Within dear arms yoke me, Gather me. I am sped Into your little bosom Press, hide my childish head.

How long I have struggled I know not; but the past Seems twice livelong, Beaten at the last!

My soul leaps and shudders In pain none understands; With your clear voice calm it, Soothe it with your hands.

I can say only --So lost am I, so distressed-- "I love you: I am tired." You must guess the rest.

I love you: I am tired. I give you my soul, It hurts me. Hate has lamed it. Take it; make it whole.

Late Summer, 1916.