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—:<br />
:<br />
MOSES<br />
Throb with a wilder pulse :<br />
No delicate flame shall quail<br />
With terror at your convulse.<br />
Thin branches whip the white skies<br />
To lips and spaces of song<br />
That chant a mood to my eyes. . . .<br />
Ah ! Sleep can be overlong.<br />
Moses<br />
Voices thunder, voices ot deeds not done<br />
Lo, on the air are scrawled in a<strong>by</strong>smal light<br />
Old myths never known and yet already forgone,<br />
And songs more lost, more secret than desert light<br />
Martyrdoms of uncreated things,<br />
Virgin silences waiting a breaking voice<br />
As in a womb they cry, in a cage beat vain wings<br />
Under life, over life : is their unbeing my choice ?<br />
Dull wine of torpor—the unsoldered spirit lies<br />
Ah !<br />
limp.<br />
If she would run into a mould,<br />
Some new idea unwalled<br />
To human <strong>by</strong>-ways, an apocalyptic camp<br />
Of utterest and ulterior dreaming,<br />
Understood only in its gleaming,<br />
To flash stark naked the whole girth of the world.<br />
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