Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear respose for limbs with travel tirèd;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body’s work’s expirèd.
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see;
Save that my soul’s imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which like a jewel, hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
    Lo thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,
    For thee and for myself no quiet find.

Written in respose to 'The Garden' by John W. **** on hellopoetry.


Paradise is lost
Who can restore it's splendour?
Who is worthy?

In frantic despair he stared
A myriad faces stared back
No muscle flinched
No eyelid flickered
Like the silence before the scream
Eyes fought to make out
Even the tiniest of movements

Despite the massed numbers
Above, below and all around
The stillness was gigantic
And he knew then, the end of hope
The final appeal had been dismissed
And cold horror wrung out the air

Until the grainy finger of an old man
Pointed, resolutely to the right.
To a lion whose muscular frame
bore a victor's wreath of torn briars;
whose eyes spoke judgement and mercy.
'Ecce ****' declared the old man.