Here, where the world is quiet; | |
Here, where all trouble seems | |
Dead winds’ and spent waves’ riot | |
In doubtful dreams of dreams; | |
I watch the green field growing | |
For reaping folk and sowing, | |
For harvest-time and mowing, | |
A sleepy world of streams. | |
I am tired of tears and laughter, | |
10 | And men that laugh and weep; |
Of what may come hereafter | |
For men that sow to reap: | |
I am weary of days and hours, | |
Blown buds of barren flowers, | |
Desires and dreams and powers | |
And everything but sleep. | |
Here life has death for neighbour, | |
And far from eye or ear | |
Wan waves and wet winds labour, | |
20 | Weak ships and spirits steer; |
They drive adrift, and whither | |
They wot not who make thither; | |
But no such winds blow hither, | |
And no such things grow here. | |
No growth of moor or coppice, | |
No heather-flower or vine, | |
But bloomless buds of poppies, | |
Green grapes of Proserpine, | |
Pale beds of blowing rushes | |
30 | Where no leaf blooms or blushes |
Save this whereout she crushes | |
For dead men deadly wine. | |
Pale, without name or number, | |
In fruitless fields of corn, | |
They bow themselves and slumber | |
All night till light is born; | |
And like a soul belated, | |
In hell and heaven unmated, | |
By cloud and mist abated | |
40 | Comes out of darkness morn. |
Though one were strong as seven, | |
He too with death shall dwell, | |
Nor wake with wings in heaven, | |
Nor weep for pains in hell; | |
Though one were fair as roses, | |
His beauty clouds and closes; | |
And well though love reposes, | |
In the end it is not well. | |
Pale, beyond porch and portal, | |
50 | Crowned with calm leaves, she stands |
Who gathers all things mortal | |
With cold immortal hands; | |
Her languid lips are sweeter | |
Than love’s who fears to greet her | |
To men that mix and meet her | |
From many times and lands. | |
She waits for each and other, | |
She waits for all men born; | |
Forgets the earth her mother, | |
60 | The life of fruits and corn; |
And spring and seed and swallow | |
Take wing for her and follow | |
Where summer song rings hollow | |
And flowers are put to scorn. | |
There go the loves that wither, | |
The old loves with wearier wings; | |
And all dead years draw thither, | |
And all disastrous things; | |
Dead dreams of days forsaken, | |
70 | Blind buds that snows have shaken, |
Wild leaves that winds have taken, | |
Red strays of ruined springs. | |
We are not sure of sorrow, | |
And joy was never sure; | |
To-day will die to-morrow; | |
Time stoops to no man’s lure; | |
And love, grown faint and fretful, | |
With lips but half regretful | |
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful | |
80 | Weeps that no loves endure. |
From too much love of living, | |
From hope and fear set free, | |
We thank with brief thanksgiving | |
Whatever gods may be | |
That no life lives for ever; | |
That dead men rise up never; | |
That even the weariest river | |
Winds somewhere safe to sea. | |
Then star nor sun shall waken, | |
90 | Nor any change of light: |
Nor sound of waters shaken, | |
Nor any sound or sight: | |
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, | |
Nor days nor things diurnal; | |
Only the sleep eternal | |
In an eternal night. |