AT times I grow distrustful of repose... Have you perhaps allowed yourself to die, Shut in behind yourself, the walls too high, The last gates shut, and never to unclose? And can you not be more than what you are: Calm, and remote? My thoughts in clamorous storm Surge like the rains of summer, black and warm, And move you not, and spend themselves afar. Always you wait; and I am wordless, held Beyond the impassable barrier, apart; Watching your mood, too long restrained and quelled, Strong in the dark of doubt—as strong as stone— Shaped by your will with its most desperate art, To keep you safe, and deathless, and alone. |