Night's self doth seem to sleep. The wide white moon

Keeps watch upon the soul of its mute slumber.

The scattered calm of the lone stars, sight-known

As incense, doth life of its sense discumber.

My moon thoughts sleep and breathe low. My soul

Lies like a flung thing in the grass of the hour.

My body rests till my sense of't doth fall

And I become pure I, mere soul, dreams' bower.

O not to wake! ne're to be Time's or other

Than this nothing! to have no spaced scope!

To bid farewell to needs as of a mother,

Cease to be aught that can recall or hope!

My own soul my whole void world, all to have,

My gateless Eden, my whole death and grave!

by F.P.

ana