Come not again, dear sun,
Unless you bring
Ardor less weary a little.
Sweet hope not so brittle,
And quiet from the groves
My heart so loves --
The quiet where, with spread and spotted wing,
The brown quail run.
Hang there awhile, low moon;
I fear the day,
Roads and the panniered asses,
The silly wayside lasses.
The laugh of the fool that gapes
Trampling his tub of grapes;
Hang there a little while. Here I will pray
For quiet soon.
I have loved girls and lost -
Loved God and lose.
Have not the foaming horses
Raging the chariot courses,
Panthers and dungeoned apes
Twisted the shapes
Of passion? There is nothing left to choose
At nothing's cost!
Some singing, some o'er-cast,
Some without lamps,
Around the seventh column,
Turbaned and solemn,
Full-burdened. black and brown,
The slaves go down;
So the procession of my prophets tramps
Endlessly past.
What's night to me or day?
Storm or soft airs?
The gleam of ponded fishes?
The wells of wishes?
'Tis peace, dear peace, I need
And a heart freed;
For love, vain love. tortures in gold-spun snares
My spirit away.
First published in The Bulletin, 15 November 1923;
and later in
The Gully and Other Verses by Furnley Maurice, 1937.
