A unfairly neglected poet’s lament, this is an autumnal poem on a grand scale, responding to the effects of time and evolving knowledge
The Silent Heavens
Here I wander about, and here I mournfully ponder:
Weary to me is the sun, weary the coming of night:
Here is captivity still, there would be captivity yonder:
Like to myself are the rest, smitten is all with a blight.
