To the Lions by Furnley Maurice

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   Come not again, dear sun,
   Unless you bring
   Ardor less weary a little.
   Sweet hope not so brittle,
   And quiet from the groves
   My heart so loves --
The quiet where, with spread and spotted wing,
   The brown quail run.

   Hang there awhile, low moon;
   I fear the day,
   Roads and the panniered asses,
   The silly wayside lasses.
   The laugh of the fool that gapes
   Trampling his tub of grapes;
Hang there a little while. Here I will pray
   For quiet soon.

   I have loved girls and lost -
   Loved God and lose.
   Have not the foaming horses
   Raging the chariot courses,
   Panthers and dungeoned apes
   Twisted the shapes
Of passion? There is nothing left to choose
   At nothing's cost!

   Some singing, some o'er-cast,
   Some without lamps,
   Around the seventh column,
   Turbaned and solemn,
   Full-burdened. black and brown,
   The slaves go down;
So the procession of my prophets tramps
   Endlessly past.

   What's night to me or day?
   Storm or soft airs?
   The gleam of ponded fishes?
   The wells of wishes?
   'Tis peace, dear peace, I need
   And a heart freed;
For love, vain love. tortures in gold-spun snares
   My spirit away.

First published in The Bulletin, 15 November 1923;
and later in
The Gully and Other Verses by Furnley Maurice, 1937.

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on November 15, 2012 8:28 AM.

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