Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/175

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And that I need not eat nor drink.I am full-nourished so.*****Beyond the wastes of wept-out woeI see you still,Holding toward me those tender handsI could not fill;My palms still curve and close,Deeming they hoardThe shining things you pouredThat I let spill.
Over us lift the years;Hill upon hillOf days that wither into nightAnd nights that ache to day . . .Reiterated emptiness of shade and lightCrowding the emptier way.
Up to this high, sure therapy of time,Beloved, shall we climb?*****I know that I am tired: I would rather stayDown in the shadows of our dear defeat—Too still for invading grief, too deep—A little while;And sleep, as children sleep.A little, little while!Turn from my dreamlessness, and wake, and smileIndifferent to the dark,Holding to me my one-time joy,As children clutch an ancient, battered toyThey will not have renewed;Smile—and lie closer to a lossThat tunes itself to gain—Inexorable lullaby—Lie softer, safer,

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