Хазел Холл (Hazel Hall)

The Circle

Dreams—and an old, old waking,
An unspent vision gone;
Night, clean with silence, breaking
Into loud dawn.
 
A wonder that is blurring
The new day’s strange demands,
The indomitable stirring
Of folded hands.
 
Then only the hours’ pageant
And the drowsing sound of their creep,
Bringing at last the vagrant
Dreams of new sleep.

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