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 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
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!
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |