Repose In Me
Poem — An Invocation to The Master #124
Published on September 10, 2021
Repose In Me
Poem — An Invocation to The Master #124
Ah, it is fine, avert not Thy gaze,
For even to Thee and Thy perfect pen
Must in an earthly moment produce
A mar as me balancing too much perfection.
I am Thy repose, Thy dull holiday,
When Thou tirest of too many heroes,
Of feet that strain to maidens faraway
And arms that tire of stringing arrows.
Dwell in me, herein is no demand high,
No greatness or subtlety to ponder;
Only seal Thy ears to muffled sigh
That slips my heart in rare despair.
I sought Thee on the peaks austere
And on unvisited tops of perfection,
But Thou art content to dwell here
In my body-lair sans one lofty notion!
Leave to them the upkeep of Thy suns
Repose in me and I shall Thy feet service.