The year is dying in the night.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life.
The passionate heart of the poet is whirled into folly and vice.
That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.
But what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.
Name and fame! to fly sublime Through the courts, the camps, the schools Is to be the ball of Time, Bandied in the hands of fools.