VIII.

IX.

Hours continuing long, sore and 
          heavy-hearted, 
Hours of the dusk, when I withdraw to a 
          lonesome and unfrequented spot, 
          seating myself, leaning my face in my
          hands, 
Hours sleepless, deep in the night, when I go 
          forth, speeding swiftly the country
          roads, or through the city streets, or 
          pacing miles and miles, stifling  
          plaintive cries, 
Hours discouraged, distracted, —For he, the
          one I cannot content myself 
          without—soon I saw him content
          himself without me, 
Hours when I am forgotten—(O weeks and 
          months are passing, but I believe I am 
          never to forget!) 
Sullen and suffering hours—(I am ashamed—
          but it is useless—I am what I am;)
Hours of my torment—I wonder if other men
          ever have the like, out of the like
          feelings? 
Is there even one other like me—distracted
          — his friend, his lover, lost to him? 
Is he too as I am now?  Does he still rise
          in the morning, dejected, thinking who
          is lost to him? And at night, awaking,
          think who is lost? 
Does he too harbor his friendship silent and
          endless?  Harbor his anguish and
          passion? 
Does some stray reminder, or the casual
          mention of a name, bring the fit back
          upon him, taciturn and deprest? 
Does he see himself reflected in me?  In these
          hours does he see the face of his hours
          reflected?

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