Page:Poems by Isaac Rosenberg (1922).djvu/127



Fret the nonchalant noon With your spleen Or your gay brow, For the motion of your spirit Ever moves with these.

When day shall be too quiet, Deaf to you And your dumb smile, Untuned air shall lap the stillness In the old space for your voice—

The voice that once could mirror Remote depths Of moving being, Stirred by responsive voices near, Suddenly stilled for ever.