So silent, that light-speckled surf, that wave
Of stone upon sick stone. Unending squares
At day, which clone each other in a rave,
Like canker sore, sprawling their fault and heirs.
But at night, oh!, such sight: a jewel bright
Of small spots consonant in orange shine−
Under that might, that mute night none dare fight
Who would such sweet resounding sight decline?
Within each house there's sleep and throbbing life,
There's dark and flaming light, alive, opaque:
The spark of consciousness in daily strife.
Alas, at rosy dawn again they wake.
Yet their own soil they cannot seem to find
Shut in that half-diminished state of mind.
Of stone upon sick stone. Unending squares
At day, which clone each other in a rave,
Like canker sore, sprawling their fault and heirs.
But at night, oh!, such sight: a jewel bright
Of small spots consonant in orange shine−
Under that might, that mute night none dare fight
Who would such sweet resounding sight decline?
Within each house there's sleep and throbbing life,
There's dark and flaming light, alive, opaque:
The spark of consciousness in daily strife.
Alas, at rosy dawn again they wake.
Yet their own soil they cannot seem to find
Shut in that half-diminished state of mind.
No comments:
Post a Comment