 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
541
“ACCORDING TO THE MIGHTY WORKING”
I
When moiling seems at ceaseIn the vague void of night-time,
And heaven's wide roomage stormless
Between the dusk and light-time,
And fear at last is formless,
We call the allurement Peace.
II
Peace, this hid riot, Change,This revel of quick-cued mumming,
This never truly being,
This evermore becoming,
This spinner's wheel onfleeing
Outside perception's range.
1917.
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |