Alone
‘I stood and stand alone’. (Byron: Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage)
Alone I stand:
Alone I think.
My heart, worn by its constant load
Of love and anger, pride and fear,
Labours to do its best for me
As I increase the strains that it must bear.
Alone I stand:
Alone I think.
My restless brain can quickly snare
A passing fancy, set it free,
Then clutch another flying near;
Yet cannot save me from this constant goad;
Alone I stand:
Alone I think.
My mind, like some migrating bird,
Soars up into the endless sky;
Or drops down through deep, tranquil vales
Of meditative calm and psychic peace.
Alone I stand:
Alone I think.
My spirit, seeking its release
From mundane things, boldly assails
Indolent lassitude. With spry
Activity it spurns the dozy herd.
Alone I stand:
Alone I think.
