by James McAuley

James McAuley

The rose that leans its chin
Upon a curving leaf
And looks across the land
Knows not my grief;
The slug that frets the leaf
Blindly with mincing jaw
Obeys its life's command:
Each has a law
Within it and is free
Of my hard liberty.
Nature is sleep:
Beyond that sleep I press
Half-roused, yet cannot leap
To wakefulness.

Collected Poems 1936-1970

Last updated January 14, 2019