LIGHTS OUT I HAVE come to the borders of sleep, The unfathomable deep Forest where all must lose Their way, however straight, Or winding, soon or late; They cannot choose. Many a road and track That, since the dawn's first crack, Up to the forest brink, Deceived the travellers Suddenly now blurs, And in they sink. Here love ends, Despair, ambition ends, All pleasure and all trouble, Although most sweet or bitter, Here ends in sleep that is sweeter Than tasks most noble. There is not any book Or face of dearest look That I would not turn from now To go into the unknown I must enter and leave alone I know not how. The tall forest towers; Its cloudy foliage lowers Ahead, shelf above shelf; Its silence I hear and obey That I may lose my way And myself. COCK-CROW OUT of the wood of thoughts that grows by night To be cut down by the sharp axe of light,-- Out of the night, two cocks together crow, Cleaving the darkness with a silver blow: And bright before my eyes twin trumpeters stand, Heralds of splendour, one at either hand, Each facing each as in a coat of arms: The milkers lace their boots up at the farms. WORDS OUT of us all That make rhymes, Will you choose Sometimes-- As the winds use A crack in a wall Or a drain, Their joy or their pain To whistle through-- Choose me, You English words? I know you: You are light as dreams, Tough as oak, Precious as gold, As poppies and corn, Or an old cloak: Sweet as our birds To the ear, As the burnet rose In the heat Of Midsummer: Strange as the races Of dead and unborn: Strange and sweet Equally, And familiar, To the eye, As the dearest faces That a man knows, And as lost homes are: But though older far Than oldest yew,-- As our hills are, old.-- Worn new Again and again: Young as our streams After rain: And as dear As the earth which you prove That we love. Make me content With some sweetness From Wales Whose nightingales Have no wings,-- From Wiltshire and Kent And Herefordshire, And the villages there,-- From the names, and the things No less. Let me sometimes dance With you, Or climb Or stand perchance In ecstasy, Fixed and free In a rhyme, As poets do. THE END PRINTED AT THE CHAPEL RIVER PRESS KINGSTON, SURREY.