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SLAVES OF FREEDOM

By Coningsby Dawson

New York: Henry Holt And Company

1916


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A SLAVE OF FREEDOM


                   The Night slips his arm about the Moon

                   And walks till the skies grow gray;

                   But my Love, when I speak of love,

                   Has never a word to say.

                   I set my dreams at her feet as lamps

                   For which all my hope must pay;

                   But my Love, when I speak of love,

                   Has never a word to say.

                   I fill her hands with a gleaming soul

                   For her plaything night and day;

                   But she, when I speak to her of love,

                   Has