The joints and knuckles hardened each to each.

And they are dead while waiting for the sea,

The moon-pursuing sea, to come again.

Their hearts are blown away on the hot breeze.

Only the shells and stones can wait to be

Washed bright. For living things, who suffer pain,

May not endure till time can bring them ease.


Happiness, to some, elation;

Is, to others, mere stagnation.

Days of passive somnolence,

At its wildest, indolence.

Hours of empty quietness,

No delight, and no distress.

Happiness to me is wine,

Effervescent, superfine.

Full of tang and fiery pleasure,

Far too hot to leave me leisure

For a single thought beyond it.

Drunk! Forgetful! This the bond: it

Means to give one's soul to gain

Life's quintessence. Even pain

Pricks to livelier living, then

Wakes the nerves to laugh again,

Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.

Although we must die to-morrow,

Losing every thought but this;

Torn, triumphant, drowned in bliss.

Happiness: We rarely feel it.

I would buy it, beg it, steal it,

Pay in coins of dripping blood

For this one transcendent good.

The Last Quarter of the Moon

How long shall I tarnish the mirror of life,

A spatter of rust on its polished steel!

The seasons reel

Like a goaded wheel.

Half-numb, half-maddened, my days are strife.

The night is sliding towards the dawn,

And upturned hills crouch at autumn's knees.

A torn moon flees

Through the hemlock trees,

The hours have gnawed it to feed their spawn.

Pursuing and jeering the misshapen thing

A rabble of clouds flares out of the east.

Like dogs unleashed

After a beast,

They stream on the sky, an outflung string.

A desolate wind, through the unpeopled dark,

Shakes the bushes and whistles through empty nests,

And the fierce unrests

I keep as guests

Crowd my brain with corpses, pallid and stark.

Leave me in peace, O Spectres, who haunt

My labouring mind, I have fought and failed.

I have not quailed,

I was all unmailed

And naked I strove, 'tis my only vaunt.

The moon drops into the silver day

As waking out of her swoon she comes.

I hear the drums

Of millenniums

Beating the mornings I still must stay.

The years I must watch go in and out,

While I build with water, and dig in air,

And the trumpets blare

Hollow despair,

The shuddering trumpets of utter rout.

An atom tossed in a chaos made

Of yeasting worlds, which bubble and foam.

Whence have I come?

What would be home?

I hear no answer. I am afraid!

I crave to be lost like a wind-blown flame.

Pushed into nothingness by a breath,

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