The Poetical Works of John Payne Definitive Edition in Two Volumes |
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SLEEPERS AND ONE THAT WATCHES. |
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 | The Poetical Works of John Payne |  |
SLEEPERS AND ONE THAT WATCHES.
WILL the day never dawn? The dim stars weep
Great tears of silver on the pall of night
And the sad moon, for weariness grown white,
Crawls like a mourner up the Eastern steep.
I strain my eyes for morning, while these sleep;
Dreaming of women, this one with the lips
Half-parted, haply,—that in the eclipse
Of a child-slumber, dreamless, folded deep,
Eyes sealed, as though the hand of sleep strewed flowers
Upon their lids, and mouth a fresh-dewed rose,
Wet with the kisses of the night. The hours
Are very heavy on my soul, that knows
No rest: for pinions of the unseen powers
Winnow the wind in every breath that blows.
Great tears of silver on the pall of night
And the sad moon, for weariness grown white,
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I strain my eyes for morning, while these sleep;
Dreaming of women, this one with the lips
Half-parted, haply,—that in the eclipse
Of a child-slumber, dreamless, folded deep,
Eyes sealed, as though the hand of sleep strewed flowers
Upon their lids, and mouth a fresh-dewed rose,
Wet with the kisses of the night. The hours
Are very heavy on my soul, that knows
No rest: for pinions of the unseen powers
Winnow the wind in every breath that blows.
Surely, a lance-point glittered in the West;
Some trumpet thundered out its voice of doom.
But no: my eyes are hazy with the gloom.
'Twas but the moon-rays glancing on the crest
Of the tall corn; some bittern from her nest
Roused by a snake: for, see, the twain sleep on
And nothing stirs their slumber, Oh for one
Sweet hour of falling through the deeps of rest,
Within that lake of sleep, the dreamy-shored!
One little hour of overlidded eyes
And folded palms! Ah me! the terror lies
Upon my soul; I may not loose my sword,
Lest I should wake beneath flame-girdled skies
And tremble to the thunders of the Lord.
Some trumpet thundered out its voice of doom.
But no: my eyes are hazy with the gloom.
'Twas but the moon-rays glancing on the crest
Of the tall corn; some bittern from her nest
Roused by a snake: for, see, the twain sleep on
And nothing stirs their slumber, Oh for one
Sweet hour of falling through the deeps of rest,
Within that lake of sleep, the dreamy-shored!
One little hour of overlidded eyes
And folded palms! Ah me! the terror lies
Upon my soul; I may not loose my sword,
Lest I should wake beneath flame-girdled skies
And tremble to the thunders of the Lord.
The blackness teems with shapes of fearful things;
Weird faces glare at me from out the night
And eyes that glitter with the lurid light
Of lust and all the horror that it brings.
The air is stressful with the pulse of wings;
And what time clouds obscure the constant star
That overlooks my vigil from afar,
Strange voices tempt me with dread whisperings;
Dank hands clasp mine and breathings stir my hair,
That are no mortal's, wooing me to leap
Over the hill-crest, through the swarthy air,
Into the hollow night and thence to reap
The wonder and the weirdness hidden there.
Ah God! the day comes not; and still these sleep.
Weird faces glare at me from out the night
And eyes that glitter with the lurid light
Of lust and all the horror that it brings.
The air is stressful with the pulse of wings;
And what time clouds obscure the constant star
That overlooks my vigil from afar,
Strange voices tempt me with dread whisperings;
Dank hands clasp mine and breathings stir my hair,
That are no mortal's, wooing me to leap
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Into the hollow night and thence to reap
The wonder and the weirdness hidden there.
Ah God! the day comes not; and still these sleep.
| The Poetical Works of John Payne | |