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Poem by Isaac Rosenberg
Godhead's lip hangs When our pulses have no golden tremors, And his whips are flicked by mice And all star-amorous things. Drops, drops of shivering quiet Filter under my lids. Now only am I powerful. What though the cunning gods outwit us here In daytime and in playtime, Surely they feel the gyres we lay on them In our sleep. 0, subtle gods lying hidden! 0, gods with your oblique eyes ! Your elbows in the dawn, and wrists Bright with the afternoon, 1)o you not shake when a mortal slides Into your own unvexed peace ? When a moving stillness breaks over your knees (An emanation of piled (eons' pressures), From our bodies flat and straight, And your limbs are locked, Futilely gods', And shut your sinister essences.
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