The Dweller Alone by Stella Benson
My Self has grown too mad for me to master.
Craven, beyond what comfort I can find,
It cries: “Oh, God, I am stricken with disaster.”
Cries in the night: “I am stricken, I am blind….”
I will divorce it. I will make my dwelling
Far from my Self.
Not through these hind’ring tears
Will I see men’s tears shed.
Not with these ears
Will I hear news that tortures in the telling.
I will go seeking for my soul’s remotest
And stillest place.
For oh, I starve and thirst
To hear in quietness man’s passionate protest,
Against the doom with which his world is cursed.
Not my own wand’rings—not my own abidings—
Shall give my search […]