CHAPTER X.
THE DWELLER ALONE 257 THE DWELLER ALONE My Self has grown too mad for me to master.
Craven, beyond what comfort I can find, It cries: "_Oh, God, I am stricken with disaster_." Cries in the night: "_I am stricken, I am blind_...." I will divorce it.

I will make my dwelling Far from my Self.

Not through these hind'ring tears Will I see men's tears shed.

Not with these ears Will I hear news that tortures in the telling.
I will go seeking for my soul's remotest And stillest place.

For oh, I starve and thirst To hear in quietness man's passionate protest Against the doom with which his world is cursed.
Not my own wand'rings--not my own abidings-- Shall give my search a bias and a bent.
For me is no light moment of content, For me no friend, no teller of the tidings.
The waves of endless time do sing and thunder Upon the cliffs of space.