Let sleep the swallow on the wheel
Of turning night, that moves to death;
She stands below who would not feel
The burden of his breath
Who would not have a source for slow
Winds that arise and then are gone;
Who knows the night, and would not know
The weather of the dawn.
Now moonlight shadows in the pines
And eats like acid through the fern,
And builds with blocks and spider lines
A world she need not learn:
Where she must stand with no escape
And see her world coldly increased;
And see the expense of night; the shape
Of mountains on the east.
Leave a Reply