|
|
According To The Mighty Working
By Thomas Hardy
I
When moiling seems at cease
In the vague void of night-time,
And heaven's wide roomage stormless
Between the dusk and light-time,
And fear at last is formless,
We call the allurement Peace.
II
Peace, this hid riot, Change,
This revel of quick-cued mumming,
This never truly being,
This evermore becoming,
This spinner's wheel onfleeing
Outside perception's range.
Extra Info:
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 572 times.
|
|
