Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1921/Cowardice

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COWARDICE
Discomfort sweeps my quiet, as a windLeaps at trees and leaves them cold and thinned.Not that I fear again the masteryOf winds, for holding my indifference dearI do not feel illusions stripped from me.And yet this is a fear—
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A fear of old discarded fears, of daysThat cried out at irrevocable ways.I cower for my own old cowardice—For hours that beat upon the wind's broad breastWith hands as impotent as leaves are: thisRobs my new hour of rest.
I thought my pride had covered long agoAll the old scars, like broken twigs in snow;I thought to luxuriate in rich decay,As some far-seeing tree upon a hill;But, startled into shame for an old day,I find that I am but a coward still.

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