Swinburne

Here, where the world is quiet
         Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot
         In doubtful dreams of dreams
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing
For harvest-time and mowing
         A sleepy world of streams

I am tired of tears and laughter
         And men that laugh and weep
Of what may come hereafter
         For men that sow to reap
I am weary of days and hours
Blown buds of barren flowers
Desires and dreams and powers
         And everything but sleep

Here life has death for neighbour
         And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labour
         Weak ships and spirits steer
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither
But no such winds blow hither
         And no such things grow here

No growth of moor or coppice
         No heather-flower or vine
But bloomless buds of poppies
         Green grapes of Proserpine
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes
Save this whereout she crushes
         For dead men deadly wine

Pale, without name or number
         In fruitless fields of corn
They bow themselves and slumber
         All night till light is born
And like a soul belated
In hell and heaven unmated
By cloud and mist abated
         Comes out of darkness morn

Though one were strong as seven
         He too with death shall dwell
Nor wake with wings in heaven
         Nor weep for pains in hell
Though one were fair as roses
His beauty clouds and closes
And well though love reposes
         In the end it is not well

Pale, beyond porch and portal
         Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
         With cold immortal hands
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love's who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
         From many times and lands

She waits for each and other
         She waits for all men born
Forgets the earth her mother
            The life of fruits and corn
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
         And flowers are put to scorn

There go the loves that wither
         The old loves with wearier wings
And all dead years draw thither
         And all disastrous things
Dead dreams of days forsaken
Blind buds that snows have shaken
Wild leaves that winds have taken
         Red strays of ruined springs

We are not sure of sorrow
         And joy was never sure
To-day will die to-morrow
         Time stoops to no man's lure
And love, grown faint and fretful
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
         Weeps that no loves endure

From too much love of living
         From hope and fear set free
We thank with brief thanksgiving
         Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever
That dead men rise up never
That even the weariest river
         Winds somewhere safe to sea

Then star nor sun shall waken
         Nor any change of light
Nor sound of waters shaken
         Nor any sound or sight
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal
Nor days nor things diurnal
Only the sleep eternal
         In an eternal night