Poetry Archives

My friend the Sun—like all my friends
   Inconstant, lovely, far away—
Is out, and bright, and condescends
   To glory in our holiday.

A furious march with him I’ll go
   And race him in the Western train,
And wake the hills of long ago
   And swim the Devon sea again.

I have done foolishly to head
   The footway of the false moonbeams,
To light my lamp and call the dead
   And read their long black printed dreams.

I have done foolishly to dwell
   With Fear upon her desert isle,
To take my shadowgraph to Hell,
   And then to hope the shades would smile.

And since the light must fail me soon
   (But faster, faster, Western train!)
Proud meadows of the afternoon,
   I have remembered you again.

And I’ll go seek through moor and dale
   A flower that wastrel winds caress;
The bud is red and the leaves pale,
   The name of it Forgetfulness.

Then like the old and happy hills
   With frozen veins and fires outrun,
I’ll wait the day when darkness kills
   My brother and good friend, the Sun.