SLOWLY the pale feet of morning
Tread out the ashes of midnight still burning with feverous lamplight,
Colourless, cold, as the rainclad
Sleep-drugged river that carries the wreckage of cities out sea-ward.
Slowly the fingers of dawn-light
Snuff out the candles that yearned to those Gods of delirium,
Sleep-huge as shadows grimacing
From niches made black with the smoke of a fire-spangled passion.
Smoothly the wild hair of darkness
Is plaited for rest, and the faces of visions are covered with sleep veils.
Patiently, Morning, the priestess
Drones out a psalm for the souls that we damned in the blackness,
Gashed with the daggers of street-lights,
Crushing the poisonous berries of sinister kisses,—
Morning with healing and kindness
Folds up the dresses dishevelled with terror and laughter,
Sweeps up the rags of our shadows
That danced in a red smoke of dreams on the walls of oblivion.
Tread out the ashes of midnight still burning with feverous lamplight,
Colourless, cold, as the rainclad
Sleep-drugged river that carries the wreckage of cities out sea-ward.
Slowly the fingers of dawn-light
Snuff out the candles that yearned to those Gods of delirium,
Sleep-huge as shadows grimacing
From niches made black with the smoke of a fire-spangled passion.
Smoothly the wild hair of darkness
Is plaited for rest, and the faces of visions are covered with sleep veils.
Patiently, Morning, the priestess
Drones out a psalm for the souls that we damned in the blackness,
Gashed with the daggers of street-lights,
Crushing the poisonous berries of sinister kisses,—
Morning with healing and kindness
Folds up the dresses dishevelled with terror and laughter,
Sweeps up the rags of our shadows
That danced in a red smoke of dreams on the walls of oblivion.
1919
100
