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 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
JUST ASLEEP.
For a space the shadows lift now,
Now that we are nearly met;
By what windings shall we drift now,
To what shore our keel be set?
Dearest Sleep, so long denied me,
To what regions wilt thou guide me?
Now that we are nearly met;
By what windings shall we drift now,
To what shore our keel be set?
Dearest Sleep, so long denied me,
To what regions wilt thou guide me?
Let us leave behind old sorrow,
In the room where Death has been;
Let it bide there till to-morrow,
Let it stalk, of no man seen.
Though to-morrow it will find me,
Yet to-night 't will stay behind me.
In the room where Death has been;
Let it bide there till to-morrow,
Let it stalk, of no man seen.
Though to-morrow it will find me,
Yet to-night 't will stay behind me.
219
Ah, to-morrow, iron-hearted
As the hearts of all my days,
We shall be no longer parted, —
No more travelling by strange ways;
But together, whom forever
Death alone can really sever.
As the hearts of all my days,
We shall be no longer parted, —
No more travelling by strange ways;
But together, whom forever
Death alone can really sever.
Thou shalt show me fair dream-spaces,
Where my dead ones do not seem
Dead with dust upon their faces,
Underground where comes no dream;
But with living lips to cheer me,
And with ears that love to hear me.
Where my dead ones do not seem
Dead with dust upon their faces,
Underground where comes no dream;
But with living lips to cheer me,
And with ears that love to hear me.
Thou shalt take me to the shining
Happy, precious, fleetest past,
When the heart had no divining
Of what life could be at last,
Driven out of all its courses,
Beaten back by viewless forces:
Happy, precious, fleetest past,
When the heart had no divining
Of what life could be at last,
Driven out of all its courses,
Beaten back by viewless forces:
From the terror and the passion,
And the loneliness and strife,
Take me in soft, tender fashion
To the old sequestered life;
Let me move in the old places,
Let me look on the old faces.
And the loneliness and strife,
Take me in soft, tender fashion
To the old sequestered life;
Let me move in the old places,
Let me look on the old faces.
Close against thy deep heart press me
Till thine inmost soul I see;
With thy loveliness caress me,
Who am tired of all but thee, —
So, belovèd, till the morrow
There shall be no thought of sorrow.
Till thine inmost soul I see;
With thy loveliness caress me,
Who am tired of all but thee, —
So, belovèd, till the morrow
There shall be no thought of sorrow.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |