 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
178
CLOUDS
Clouds, by west winds blown
To the gates of morn,
Could I float with you
Over hill and plain,
Float to lands unknown,
Over tracts forlorn,
I might melt in dew,
And be born again!
To the gates of morn,
Could I float with you
Over hill and plain,
Float to lands unknown,
Over tracts forlorn,
I might melt in dew,
And be born again!
I am tired of earth,
Tired of toil and gain,
Tired of beating still
At the unyielding bars;
Death succeeds to birth,
Joy dissolves in pain;
Let me float at will
Under sky and stars.
Tired of toil and gain,
Tired of beating still
At the unyielding bars;
Death succeeds to birth,
Joy dissolves in pain;
Let me float at will
Under sky and stars.
Here the rushing wind
Shrieks in street and stair,
Pipes his restless lay
Over roaring woods;
Higher, unconfined,
Runs the dizzy air,
Where in vaporous grey
Tenderest silence broods.
Shrieks in street and stair,
Pipes his restless lay
Over roaring woods;
179
Runs the dizzy air,
Where in vaporous grey
Tenderest silence broods.
Through your vales of down
Let my spirit go,
On your shoulders soft
Stand, and be at rest;
While the crowded town
Thunders leagues below,
Soar alone, aloft,
Sweeping from the west.
Let my spirit go,
On your shoulders soft
Stand, and be at rest;
While the crowded town
Thunders leagues below,
Soar alone, aloft,
Sweeping from the west.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |