Poem by William Watson

* * *

Thy voice from inmost dreamland calls;
  The wastes of sleep thou makest fair;
Bright o'er the ridge of darkness falls
  The cataract of thy hair.

The morn renews its golden birth:
  Thou with the vanquished night dost fade;
And leav'st the ponderable earth
  Less real than thy shade.

1. Well He Slumbers, Greatly Slain
2. And These - Are These Indeed the End
3. Liberty Rejected
4. World-Strangeness
5. History

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