SLEEP
Godhead’s lip hangsWhen our pulses have no golden tremors,And his whips are flicked by miceAnd all star-amorous things.Drops, drops of shivering quietFilter under my lids.Now only am I powerful.What though the cunning gods outwit us hereIn daytime and in playtime,Surely they feel the gyves we lay on themIn our sleep.O, subtle gods lying hidden!O, gods with your oblique eyes!Your elbows in the dawn, and wristsBright with the afternoon,Do you not shake when a mortal slidesInto your own unvexed peace?When a moving stillness breaks over your knees(An emanation of piled æons’ pressures),From our bodies flat and straight,And your limbs are locked,Futilely gods,And shut your sinister essences?
Godhead’s lip hangsWhen our pulses have no golden tremors,And his whips are flicked by miceAnd all star-amorous things.Drops, drops of shivering quietFilter under my lids.Now only am I powerful.What though the cunning gods outwit us hereIn daytime and in playtime,Surely they feel the gyves we lay on themIn our sleep.O, subtle gods lying hidden!O, gods with your oblique eyes!Your elbows in the dawn, and wristsBright with the afternoon,Do you not shake when a mortal slidesInto your own unvexed peace?When a moving stillness breaks over your knees(An emanation of piled æons’ pressures),From our bodies flat and straight,And your limbs are locked,Futilely gods,And shut your sinister essences?
Godhead’s lip hangsWhen our pulses have no golden tremors,And his whips are flicked by miceAnd all star-amorous things.
Godhead’s lip hangs
When our pulses have no golden tremors,
And his whips are flicked by mice
And all star-amorous things.
Drops, drops of shivering quietFilter under my lids.Now only am I powerful.What though the cunning gods outwit us hereIn daytime and in playtime,Surely they feel the gyves we lay on themIn our sleep.
Drops, drops of shivering quiet
Filter under my lids.
Now only am I powerful.
What though the cunning gods outwit us here
In daytime and in playtime,
Surely they feel the gyves we lay on them
In our sleep.
O, subtle gods lying hidden!O, gods with your oblique eyes!Your elbows in the dawn, and wristsBright with the afternoon,Do you not shake when a mortal slidesInto your own unvexed peace?
O, subtle gods lying hidden!
O, gods with your oblique eyes!
Your elbows in the dawn, and wrists
Bright with the afternoon,
Do you not shake when a mortal slides
Into your own unvexed peace?
When a moving stillness breaks over your knees(An emanation of piled æons’ pressures),From our bodies flat and straight,And your limbs are locked,Futilely gods,And shut your sinister essences?
When a moving stillness breaks over your knees
(An emanation of piled æons’ pressures),
From our bodies flat and straight,
And your limbs are locked,
Futilely gods,
And shut your sinister essences?
MY DAYS
My days are but the tombs of buried hours;Which tombs are hidden in the pilèd years;But from the mounds there spring up many flowers,Whose beauty well repays their cost of tears.Time, like a sexton, pileth mould on mould,Minutes on minutes till the tombs are high;But from the dust there fall some grains of gold,And the dead corpse leaves what will never die—It may be but a thought, the nursling seedOf many thoughts, of many a high desire;Some little act that stirs a noble deed,Like breath rekindling a smouldering fire:They only live who have not lived in vain,For in their works their life returns again.
My days are but the tombs of buried hours;Which tombs are hidden in the pilèd years;But from the mounds there spring up many flowers,Whose beauty well repays their cost of tears.Time, like a sexton, pileth mould on mould,Minutes on minutes till the tombs are high;But from the dust there fall some grains of gold,And the dead corpse leaves what will never die—It may be but a thought, the nursling seedOf many thoughts, of many a high desire;Some little act that stirs a noble deed,Like breath rekindling a smouldering fire:They only live who have not lived in vain,For in their works their life returns again.
My days are but the tombs of buried hours;Which tombs are hidden in the pilèd years;But from the mounds there spring up many flowers,Whose beauty well repays their cost of tears.Time, like a sexton, pileth mould on mould,Minutes on minutes till the tombs are high;But from the dust there fall some grains of gold,And the dead corpse leaves what will never die—It may be but a thought, the nursling seedOf many thoughts, of many a high desire;Some little act that stirs a noble deed,Like breath rekindling a smouldering fire:They only live who have not lived in vain,For in their works their life returns again.
My days are but the tombs of buried hours;
Which tombs are hidden in the pilèd years;
But from the mounds there spring up many flowers,
Whose beauty well repays their cost of tears.
Time, like a sexton, pileth mould on mould,
Minutes on minutes till the tombs are high;
But from the dust there fall some grains of gold,
And the dead corpse leaves what will never die—
It may be but a thought, the nursling seed
Of many thoughts, of many a high desire;
Some little act that stirs a noble deed,
Like breath rekindling a smouldering fire:
They only live who have not lived in vain,
For in their works their life returns again.
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BYBILLING AND SONS, LIMITED,GUILDFORD AND ESHER
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BYBILLING AND SONS, LIMITED,GUILDFORD AND ESHER
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
BILLING AND SONS, LIMITED,
GUILDFORD AND ESHER
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTESSilently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling.Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES