Stretch towards the moonless midnight of the trees, As
though that hand could reach to where they stand, And
they but famous old upholsteries Delightful
to the touch; tighten that hand As
though to draw them closer yet. Rammed full Of
that most sensuous silence of the night (For
since the horizon's bought strange dogs are still) Climb
to your chamber full of books and wait, No
books upon the knee, and no one there But
a great dane that cannot bay the moon And
now lies sunk in sleep. What climbs the
stair? Nothing
that common women ponder on If
you are worth my hope! Neither Content Nor
satisfied Conscience, but that great family Some
ancient famous authors misrepresent, The Proud Furies each with her torch on high. |
|部落|Archiver|英文巴士
( 渝ICP备10012431号-2 )
GMT+8, 2016-10-5 11:52 , Processed in 0.073980 second(s), 9 queries , Gzip On, Redis On.