 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
310
IN PRAISE OF SLEEP.
I.
There is a Land where nightly I repair,
At whose dim gate I put my cross aside,
Stretch out my arms toward Rest as toward a bride,
And am withal assuaged. Ah, even there,
Beyond false hope, beyond the stress of prayer,
Beyond the hurt and smart of broken pride,
With no more hunger for sweet things denied,
My heart has rest and respite from despair.
At whose dim gate I put my cross aside,
Stretch out my arms toward Rest as toward a bride,
And am withal assuaged. Ah, even there,
Beyond false hope, beyond the stress of prayer,
Beyond the hurt and smart of broken pride,
With no more hunger for sweet things denied,
My heart has rest and respite from despair.
O land of mystic shapes and languid pleasure,
Waste field of poppies without track it seems!
O scentless lilies, by the voiceless streams
Where come my ghosts and dance a silent measure,
Hold my last joy, now! — only in dear dreams
Give back to me, sometimes, my buried treasure!
Waste field of poppies without track it seems!
O scentless lilies, by the voiceless streams
Where come my ghosts and dance a silent measure,
Hold my last joy, now! — only in dear dreams
Give back to me, sometimes, my buried treasure!
II.
I have no heart in me for Love's delight:
How sweet the Summer was! How strong its spell!
I care not, now, what stars may have to tell;
To me the day is void, and void the night.
Upon her dim and inaccessible height
Fame stands above me, robed and crowned. Ah, well!
Let those who love her find her pleasurable;
She hath no grace or merit in my sight.
How sweet the Summer was! How strong its spell!
I care not, now, what stars may have to tell;
To me the day is void, and void the night.
Upon her dim and inaccessible height
Fame stands above me, robed and crowned. Ah, well!
Let those who love her find her pleasurable;
She hath no grace or merit in my sight.
I am in love alone with tender Sleep, —
Dew on my sad, unfruitful flower of life
Of which no man the memory may keep.
O most divine forgetfulness of strife,
My sky is not too dark, my path too steep,
While Thou art mine, for Friend, for Love, for Wife!
Dew on my sad, unfruitful flower of life
Of which no man the memory may keep.
O most divine forgetfulness of strife,
My sky is not too dark, my path too steep,
While Thou art mine, for Friend, for Love, for Wife!
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |