Because you cannot sit with me And read a book when night has come, But press your hands upon your breast And give your eyes to all unrest; Because at windows and at doors You glance, and wait the least wind-tap Of pines against the prescient pane, And if it does not come are fain, Suddenly starting from your chair, To go and see what may be there, -- I know that you can only care For that which is not anywhere: For that which calls without a voice, Which moves without a shape, Which wills, but ever without choice; Which brings death -- not escape. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THEN AND NOW by CECIL DAY LEWIS MATE (1) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON CHAMBER MUSIC: 35 by JAMES JOYCE |