Poetry Archives

Sleep, kinsman thou to death and trance
  And madness, thou hast forged at last
  A night-long Present of the Past
In which we went thro’ summer France.

Hadst thou such credit with the soul?
  Then bring an opiate trebly strong,
  Drug down the blindfold sense of wrong
That so my pleasure may be whole;

While now we talk as once we talk’d
  Of men and minds, the dust of change,
  The days that grow to something strange,
In walking as of old we walk’d

Beside the river’s wooded reach,
  The fortress, and the mountain ridge,
  The cataract flashing from the bridge,
The breaker breaking on the beach.