I WHEN moiling seems at cease In the vague void of night-time, And heaven's wide roomage stormless Between the dusk and light-time, And fear at last is formless, We call the allurement Peace. II Peace, this hid riot, Change, This revel of quick-cued mumming, This never truly being, This evermore becoming, This spinner's wheel onfleeing Outside perception's range. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DORA VERSUS ROSE by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON AS THE GREEK'S SIGNAL FLAME by WALT WHITMAN PAMPINEA by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE BLUEBIRD by WILLIAM P. ALEXANDER THE CONFESSION by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM THE JUDGMENT OF PARIS by JAMES BEATTIE |