I would not be a slave to Time:
Oh, Time, I ever hated thee!
Defiantly I fling my rhyme
At thee in wait to fetter me.

Here, where the nights are still — so still,
So luminous they turn the brain,
My spirit wanders where it will
Through little woods and out again
Across the quiet, moon-washed hill
By springing hedgerows fresh with rain
To where the dreamy orchards lie,
A sea of drifting, breaking bloom,
That flings its foam-white flower high,
And flickers in the troubled gloom:
And when, upon the midnight, lo!
The soul of night begins to sing,
O'er tangled fragrant things that grow
My spirit leaves its hovering,
And breaks its last remaining bars,
And, chainless, spreads a happy wing,
To leap and soar around the stars.

Alas, I know that it were best
To shut the magic tree-tops out
So late it is, and take my rest
And bind my spirit round about,

Else how to-morrow, dreaming, dazed,
Should I take up a weary pen,
And write long notes on questions raised
By solemn reasonable men?
And how by day should I recall
A prehistoric verb aright?
For texts and analogues and all
Slip from the mind that roves by night.

This is the worst, my dear, — oh thou,
Serenely patient without end! —
That I who know thy patience now
And would in such proud fashion spend
A century of aching thought
For thy sole sake, must none the less
Shut thee away, and count thee naught
For hours on hours of hopelessness;
Must, even while I struggle, hear
The beat of Time go forward still,
And listen with submissive ear,
And bow my forehead to his will.

I would not be a slave to Time:
Oh, Time, I ever hated thee!
I hurl defiance ... and a rhyme
At thee in wait to fetter me.