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| James Elroy Flecker - from Wikipedia |
When the words rustle no more,
And the last work's done,
When the bolt lies deep in the door,
And Fire, our Sun,
Falls on the dark-laned meadows of the floor;
When from the clock's last chime to the next
chime
Silence beats his drum,
And Space with gaunt grey eyes and her brother
Time
Wheeling and whispering come,
She with the mould of form and he with the loom
of rhyme :
Then twittering out in the night my thought-
birds flee,
I am emptied of all my dreams :
I only hear Earth turning, only see
Ether's long bankless streams,
And only know I should drown if you laid not
your hand on me.
James Elroy Flecker (1884 - 1915)
2 comments:
Silence is increasingly at a premium, especially where I live - noisy, restless neighbours who simply will not be still. Living in the wilderness, I'd probably seek the cut and thrust of bonhomie.
JH - it's not too bad here, mostly quiet, but I'd miss it if it wasn't. In fact I think I'd move.
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