Page:Poems by Isaac Rosenberg (1922).djvu/77

 Throb with a wilder pulse: No delicate flame shall quail With terror at your convulse. Thin branches whip the white skies To lips and spaces of song That chant a mood to my eyes.... Ah! Sleep can be overlong.

Voices thunder, voices of deeds not done: Lo, on the air are scrawled in abysmal light Old myths never known and yet already forgone, And songs more lost, more secret than desert light : Martyrdoms of uncreated things, Virgin silences waiting a breaking voice— As in a womb they cry, in a cage beat vain wings Under life, over life: is their unbeing my choice ?

Dull wine of torpor—the unsoldered spirit lies limp. Ah! If she would run into a mould, Some new idea unwalled To human by-ways, an apocalyptic camp Of utterest and ulterior dreaming, Understood only in its gleaming, To flash stark naked the whole girth of the world.