A SONNET OF DESPAIR.
My captain calls to me to join the fray,Fame holds her fillet ready for my brow,Love stands with aching, open arms, and Thou,O God, to whom I impotently pray,Art ever ready to receive me—yea,Dost yearn for my poor prisoned soul—then howBecomes it that I linger in this sloughOf idle, unclean days, till I grow gray?Bound am I to a corpse, face unto face,Of old iniquities, and dead desire,Which, fair and young, of old did I embrace.Now chains of habit, forged in Passion’s fire,Hold me forever in this durance base:Struggling to rise, I wallow in the mire.Claude Fayette Bragdon.
My captain calls to me to join the fray,Fame holds her fillet ready for my brow,Love stands with aching, open arms, and Thou,O God, to whom I impotently pray,Art ever ready to receive me—yea,Dost yearn for my poor prisoned soul—then howBecomes it that I linger in this sloughOf idle, unclean days, till I grow gray?Bound am I to a corpse, face unto face,Of old iniquities, and dead desire,Which, fair and young, of old did I embrace.Now chains of habit, forged in Passion’s fire,Hold me forever in this durance base:Struggling to rise, I wallow in the mire.Claude Fayette Bragdon.
My captain calls to me to join the fray,Fame holds her fillet ready for my brow,Love stands with aching, open arms, and Thou,O God, to whom I impotently pray,Art ever ready to receive me—yea,Dost yearn for my poor prisoned soul—then howBecomes it that I linger in this sloughOf idle, unclean days, till I grow gray?
My captain calls to me to join the fray,
Fame holds her fillet ready for my brow,
Love stands with aching, open arms, and Thou,
O God, to whom I impotently pray,
Art ever ready to receive me—yea,
Dost yearn for my poor prisoned soul—then how
Becomes it that I linger in this slough
Of idle, unclean days, till I grow gray?
Bound am I to a corpse, face unto face,Of old iniquities, and dead desire,Which, fair and young, of old did I embrace.Now chains of habit, forged in Passion’s fire,Hold me forever in this durance base:Struggling to rise, I wallow in the mire.
Bound am I to a corpse, face unto face,
Of old iniquities, and dead desire,
Which, fair and young, of old did I embrace.
Now chains of habit, forged in Passion’s fire,
Hold me forever in this durance base:
Struggling to rise, I wallow in the mire.
Claude Fayette Bragdon.
Claude Fayette Bragdon.