Poem by Trumbull Stickney

* * *

 Leave him now quiet by the way 
 To rest apart. 
 I know what draws him to the dust alway
 And churns him in the builder's lime: 
 He has the fright of time.
 I heard it knocking in his breast
 A minute since; 
 His human eyes did wince, 
 He stubborned like the massive slaughter beast
And as a thing o'erwhelmed with sound
Stood bolted to the ground. 

Leave him, for rest alone can cure—
If cure there be—
This waif upon the sea. 
He is of those who slanted the great door
And listened—wretched little lad—
To what they said.

1. And, the Last Day Being Come
2. I Hear a River thro' the Valley Wander
3. Be Still. The Hanging Gardens Were a Dream
4. The Melancholy Year Is Dead with Rain
5. Dramatic Fragment

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