And when the mists come tonight they are not unlike my thoughts.
They come, tendrilling and gray, untouchable,
Yet stirring the ache, the echo of that music unheard.
I wonder at my own sorrow, and the sorrows the world
Has bequeathed upon me
For I am a dust child, born of the earth.
I wonder if Esther wept in the palace halls
If Bath-sheba ever forgot the little man child who was no more
And if Eve lay awake, in pain, counting the stars,
The stars that were so far, far away.