THE REFUGEE

They have not known
For many days,
Whether the winds would bring
A soft'ning to that grinding harshness
Against their hearts;
That wrenching recognition
Or lands to which they once belonged,
Among those whom they love:
Now gone with the flowers of Spring.

Yet sadness is a subtle song;
And madness bears no measure
Where once they traced the hours
They now discard the days
As pebbles in some pond.
But they are still alive;
And huge is their far horizon.