“. . . out of Zebulun they that handle the pen of the writer.” —Judges 5:14
For me, there’s ne’er a healing breeze that blows
between the thistles scatter’d through the rows
of poppies nodding their slumberous brows —
no slipping of the strings of Morpheus’ lyre.
Never sleep nor sleeping-draught can pale
already-wan figures dancing in the gale
of ice that tatters more the furied sail
above my ship that siren-ward is thrown.
Hurts for healing, here they’ve been and passed;
and nights for slumb’ring — nights must end at last.
Beaten slinks the sail from off my mast,
and Morpheus’ hands for aye lie still.
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