Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | November 30, 2008


by Robin Hyde (1906 – 1939).




I am tired of all voices. Friend and fool

Have come too nearly with me to the shrine

That is the secret kept by wind and pine.

Now, when the shadowy hands of dusk are cool

About my eyes, shall silence like a god                                                       5

Drive them with whips of starlight from his stairs.

Only the small grass striving in its clod,

Only the stream, that fragile moonlight bears

Like blossoms on its breast, move in this place,


All earth lies still as some beloved face                                                    10

Whose dreaming mouth and deep-curved eyelids make

Bridges to God that lightest sound would break,

Towers where one word would seem iconoclast. . . .

Yet if through darkening trees you came at last,

Wearing the dew of meadows on your shoon,                                      15

And in your eyes the blessing of the moon,

I think it would be well. I think our greeting

Would be as quiet as two rivers meeting,

Which, drawn together, sparkling up in foam,

Slide into one bright seeking; and our home                                         20

Should be the furthest longing of pale seas,

Beyond the purple caverns of the trees.



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