I3 AM,The sound of cricketsand lorries rumblingthrough the streets.In the backseatshe whispers on the phone,dismantles silence.I avert my eyesfrom the glareof an oncoming vehicle.IIOn the highwayskyscrapers drapedin starlight.I turn on the headlights
The windblows,leavesscatter.You driftin and outof my mind.Outside, the skyin so many shadesof pink.Here, a crowpecking atthe unrelenting window.CurseThe night devoid of stars,a pale crescent
A language pulsatesunderneath my skin,a language in whichI await a dream,a death wish,a language bequeathedto me in a night ofhushed love-making.There is another languagethat waits, makes its presencefelt among the shadows.Deep into the nightwhen the axe pierces my bodyand my guts spill out,I shriekin that language.
Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave,Let me once know.I sought thee in a secret cave,And ask'd, if Peace were there,A hollow wind did seem to answer, No:Go seek elsewhere.I did; and going did a rainbow note:Surely, thought I,This is the lace of Peace's coat:I will search out the matter.But while I looked the clouds immediatelyDid break and scatter.Then went I to a garden and did spyA gallant flower,The crown-imperial: Sure, said I,
Nature -- the Gentlest Mother is,Impatient of no Child --The feeblest -- or the waywardest --Her Admonition mild --In Forest -- and the Hill --By Traveller -- be heard --Restraining Rampant Squirrel --Or too impetuous Bird --How fair Her Conversation --A Summer Afternoon --Her Household -- Her Assembly --And when the Sun go down --Her Voice among the AislesIncite the timid prayerOf the minutest Cricket --The most unworthy Flower --
If faithful souls be alike glorifiedAs angels, then my fathers soul doth see,And adds this even to full felicity,That valiantly I hells wide mouth o'erstride:But if our minds to these souls be descriedBy circumstances, and by signs that beApparent in us, not immediately,How shall my mind's white truth by them be tried?They see idolatrous lovers weep and mourn,And vile blasphemous conjurers to callOn Jesus name, and PharisaicalDissemblers feigne devotion. Then turn,O pensive soul, to God, for he knows bestThy true grief, for he put it in my breast.