Classic Poem

Wakeful, I pace the deck and watch the stars
That also have no kinship unto rest —
I who am wounded by those greater wars
That storm across the spaces of the breast.
There is no sweetness that could stay me now,
And yet I long for some unnamed sweet;
I could not be assuaged by any vow —
And yet I burn to track your flying feet
Toward some last refuge where you shall confess
Something to still me. What can that thing be? ...
God, Thou hast dazed me with a loveliness
Ever my own to seek, never to see.
And Thou hast stooped to poison with sure trust
In perfect beauty this poor swirl of dust!