Oct 302013
 
"Let these two pale travelers quit travail
On your two lips' ruby firmament;
Dear restful earth, let me stretch out
My full measure on thy white redoubt
As all mortal toil must finally lie,
Even unto the last particle of desire.
Let me eat the moiety of life's content
That stirs untasted on your cold continent,
Beneath whose vital skies I'd idly settle
Among blushes, encamped among the little
Wildernesses of your careless glances.
If pilgrim prayer hath half a devil's chance,
Let me lie at last beneath your summer rains
Listening to the dull whippoorwill's refrain,
Or studying out the flowers how they bloom.--
On thy grass field that tombs up men
And builds no further monument of doom
But wild everlasting weeds, I'll lie down
And look into eternity as in a broken glass
And become myself some substance of the grass."

Sorry, the comment form is closed at this time.