Читать книгу The House of the Trees & Other Poems - A. Ethelwyn Wetherald - Страница 3

WHEN I see the ghost of night

Stealing through my window-pane,

Silken sleep and silver light

Struggle for my soul in vain;

Silken sleep all balmily

Breathes upon my lids oppressed,

Till I sudden start to see

Ghostly fingers on my breast.

White and skyey visitant,

Bringing beauty such as stings

All my inner soul to pant

After undiscovered things,

Spare me this consummate pain!

Silken weavings intercreep

Round my senses once again,

I am mortal—let me sleep.