Eternal brood the shadows on this ground, Dreaming of centuries that have gone before;
If it is madness…if it is the truth
So much horror below the skies!
“Sway hard the whip, sailors!
Make them dance more!”
The shiv'ring piano, foaming at the mouth,
Will wrench you by its ravings, discompose you.
This separation cleaveth to the core. . . .
Even in slumber I am fated
The Muses all are silent for your sake:
While night and distance take
An angry angel hurled from the heavenly height
Drumroll alarms onto the sombre earth,
When spring, to woods and wastes around,
Brought bloom and joy again,
The bugle echoes shrill and sweet,
But not of war it sings today.
Twilight ascends the abandoned ramps of noon
Within an ancient land, whose after-time
Again as in the desert way,
Behold my guides--a cloud by day,
The vital vapors to absorb,
The moon, with famished gaze,
Holy ecstasy-swans on great glad Waters
Seize me, but in vain.
Dead love, by treason slain, lies stark,
White as a dead stark-stricken dove:
I saw them sitting in the shade;
The long green vines hung over,
Last night was thick with wind, a time of countless stars.
All night long, a vast wind played within my mosquito net.
All others rest; but I
Dream-haunted lie—
Sap stirs near me, roots stretch and seize,
Sundering stones.
Descend from the immense space, oh ocean’s eagle!
Descend more…even more…no human glance can
Under the dark and piny steep
We watched the storm crash by:
Winter put his shoulder
To our door,
In the spirit’s solitary hours
It is lovely to walk in the sun
Thy hands to give Thou canst not lift,
Yet will Thy hand still giving be;
IN tombs of gold and lapis lazuli
Bodies of holy men and women exude
Babels of blocks to the high heavens towering
Flames of futility swirling below;
Six men went hunting, but only four returned.
Two, in fact, hadn't returned.
'Tis not the violent hands alone that bring
The curse, the ravage, and the downward doom,
SOMETHING lies in the room
Over against my own;
I was always afraid of Somes's Pond:
Not the little pond, by which the willow stands,
If ghosts should walk in Deptford, as very well they may, A man might find the night there more stirring than the day,
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