Page:Captain Craig; a book of poems.djvu/149

Rh And left him unintelligibly numb— Too numb to care for anything but rest. It must have been a curious kind of book That he had made: it was a drowsy book At any rate. The very thought of it Was like the taste of some impossible drink— A taste that had no taste, but for all that Had mixed with it a strange thought-cordial, So potent that it somehow killed in him The ultimate need of doubting any more— Of asking any more. Did he but live The life that he must live, there were no more To seek.—The rest of it was on the way.

Still there was nothing, nothing, in all this— Nothing that he cared now to reconcile With reason or with sorrow. All he knew For certain was that he was tired out: His flesh was heavy and his blood beat small; Something supreme had been wrenched out of him As if to make vague room for something else. He had been through too much. Yes, he would stay There where he was and rest.—And there he stayed; The daylight became twilight, and he stayed; The flame and the face faded, and he slept.