Excerpt from Poet Lore, Vol. 47: World Literature and the Drama; Winter 1941See there the sun, how it wanes in the west, Reddening hills as it breathes its last breath. You you know nothing of suns and of death, Turning your eyes to the glare and the light. Sleep, there are so many suns for your sight Sleep, my child. My child, sleep on!Sleep, my child the evening wind blows. Know we from where it comes? Whither it goes? Dark are all ways, deep hidden and wild, Yours and mine too and all others, my child! Blindly we go, all alone do we go.About the PublisherForgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.

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