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At five and twenty, I awoke from sleep
To find all that I’d hoped for heaped as dust;
To which, eyes glazed, I set myself to sweep
Away a quarter cen­tury of rust;
And so thereby resign myself to weep,
Laugh-sob at all to which I put my trust.

In youth and its endurance put my trust,
In my fire-lust for life I fell asleep,
Not giving heed to how the mind-heart rust;
Post­poned the brush’s steady sweep
Across the sheet in lin­seed blended dust —
Now gone the spirit-gifts once owned, I weep.

Pre­ventable that loss for which I weep,
If I had stal­wart in my aims put trust,
And not in idle tru­ancy let sleep
My tal­ents now inert, decayed in rust,
Cor­ro­sion streaking ’cross a clay-born sweep;
Horizon to horizon, unreapt dust.

But then all’s dust and will return to dust;
Dirt‑, dust‑, ash-streaked faces ever weep,
For fear destroys the act of final trust:
To know the after-sleep, must fall asleep;
To resinew the bones, let bones to rust;
Bleed out in foolish hope, the paschal-sweep.

A des­perate theme across my soul does sweep:
Through lethargy, a straining of my dust,
To con­quer the invading walls of sleep,
And call out: god to whom I doubting-trust;
Pray my leave-taking is well-worth a weep,
To stain a mourner’s eye with sorrow’s rust.

My promise, an immortal pen, is caked in rust,
The ink con­gealed cannot the paper sweep,
My note­book, acid-eaten, falls to dust,
My parts and powers ever­more they weep,
For I betrayed their last­ing­ness, their trust,
Too little-late, they lan­guish now in sleep.


May I yet ’rouse them from their staying rust,
Before my soul spreads out in its last sweep?
Alas, all’s dust. Sweep hope. Weep love. Sleep trust.