Night's soft armor welds me into thought Pliant and all engaging; warm dark, No scintillations to distract Nor any restless ray, moon-shot. I am still of all but breathing— No throbbing eye, no pulse; and a hushed heart. Sometimes at rest, the bones assume World's weight, hold us dumb We cannot lift a finger, flick An eyelash, wag a tongue; Breath is the only fluctuation in Death's posture, stony, dumb. Then is all sound fled Flown from the fluted ear Wind in the heavy head Can find no corridor And then is sight so bound Lids petrified to earth Only one light is found— Imagination's going forth! Only the heaven sent Pulse of the universe Beats through the buried heart Its steady course. |