When I was ten, I thought the greatest bliss
      would be to rest all day upon hot sand under a burning sun...
      time has slipped by, and finally I've known
      The lure of beaches under exotic skies
      and find my dreams to be misguided lies
      For God! how dull it is to rest alone

Last night the other world came much too near,
        And with it fear.
I heard their voices whisper me from sleep,
        And could not keep
My mind upon the dream, for still they came,
        Calling my name,
The loathly keepers of the Netherland
        I understand.
My frozen brain rejects the pulsing beat’
        My willing feet,
Cloven like theirs, too swiftly recognise
        Without surprise.
The horn. That echoes from the further hit,
        Discordant, shrill,
As such a leaping urgency of song,
        Too loud, too long,
That prayer is stifled like a single note
        In the parched throat.
How fierce the flame ! How beautiful and bright
        The inner light
Of that great world which lives within our own,
        Remote, alone.
Let me not see too soon, let me not know,
        And so forgo
All that I cling to here, the safety side
        Where I would bide.
Old Evil, loose my chains and let me rest
        Where I am best,
Here in the muted shade of my own dust.
        But if I must
Go wandering in Time and seek the source
        Of my life force,
Lend me your sable wings, that as I fall
        Beyond recall,
The sober stars may tumble in my wake,
        For Jesus'sake.

Not for me the arrow in the air,
     Nor the mountain snows,
     Nor the dumb ocean,
     Nor the wind on the heath,
     Nor the warm breath
     Of the bare bright sun upon my hair.

Nor for me the mist of the white stars,
     Nor the singing falls
     Nor the deep river,
     Nor the flung foam
     Upon the hard beach,
     Nor the other mountains that I cannot reach.

Mine is the silence
And the quiet gloom
Of a clock ticking
In an empty room
The scratch of a pen,
Ink-*** and paper,
And the patter of the rain.
Nothing but this as long as I am able,
Firelight - and a chair, and a table.

Not for me the whisper in the ear,
     Nor the touch of a hand,
     And that hand on my heart,
     Nor the quick pattering of feet
     Upon the stair, nor laughter in the street,
     Nor the swift lance, intangible and dear.

Not for me the hunger in the night,
     And the strength of the lover
     Tired of his loving,
     Seeing after passion the broken rest,
     Bearing his body’s weight upon my breast.

Mine is the silence
Of the still day,
When the shouting on the hills
Sounds far away,
The song of the thrush,
In the quiet woods,
And the scent of trees.

Always the child who loved too late,
The poet - the fool - the watchman at the gate.
I am the actress mother who must make
A pretended cradle of her arms, lifeless and bare,
Who has never borne a child.

I am the deaf musician, calm and mild,
Singing a battle symphony, who has never head the guns,
Nor the thunder in the air.

I am the painter whose blind gaze defiled
Would conjure an ocean, who has never seen the sea break
On the wild shores of Finistere....

Not for me the shadow of a smile,
     Nor the life that has gone,
     Nor the love that has fled,
     But the thread of the spider who spins on the wall,
     Who is lost, who is dead, who is nothing at all.