by William Faulkner

William Faulkner

Somewhere a slender voiceless breeze will go
Unlinking the shivering poplars' arms, and brakes
With sleeves simply crossed where waters flow;
A sunless stream quiet and deep, that slakes
The thirsty alders pausing there at dawn.
(Hush, now, hush. Where was I? Jonson)

Somewhere a candle's guttering gold
Weaves a tapestry upon a cottage wall
And her gold hair, simple fold on fold,
While I can think of nothing else at all
Except the sunset in her eyes' still pool.
(Work, work, you fool! — )

Somewhere a blackbird lost within a wood
Whistles through its golden wired throat;
Some ways are white with birches in a hood
Of silver shaken by his mellow note,
Trembling gaspingly as though in fear;
Where the timid violet first appear.

(Muted dreams for them, for me
Bitter science. Exams are near
And my thoughts uncontrollably
Wander, and I cannot hear

The voice telling me that work I must,
For everything will be the same when I am dead
A thousand years. I wish I were a bust
All head.)

Last updated October 15, 2022