Here, where the world is quiet, here, where all trouble seems, dead winds and spent the waves riot, and doubtful dreams of dreams. I watched the greenfield growing, for reaping folk and soul, for our best time in the way, the sleepy world of streams. I am tired of tears and laughter, and men that laugh and weep of what may come air after, for men that sell to reap. I am weary half days and hours, alone buts of barren flowers, desires and dreams and powers, and everything butts late. Here life has death for a neighbor, and far from our ear, while on waves and wet winds labor, weak ships and spirits stare, they drive a drift in wither, they walk not to make dither, but no such winds blow hither, and no such things grow here. No growth, the more or copes, no hither flower or fine, but blumeless buds of poppies, green grapes of prosperine, pale beds of flowing rushes, or no leaf blooms or blushes, save this whereout she crushes, for dead men deadly wine. Pale without name or number, and fruitless fields of corn, they bow themselves in slumber, all night till light is born, and like a soul belated, and hell and heaven amated, by cloud and mistubated, comes out of darkness more, though one were strong as seven, he too would doubt the shall dwell, nor wake with wings in heaven, nor wait for pains and hell, though one were fair as roses, as beauty clouds and closes, and while the love reposes, in the end it is not well. Pale beyond porch and portal, crowned with calm leaves as she stands, who gather all things mortal, with coldly mortal hands, her length with lips are sweeter, than loves who fears degrade her, to mend that mix and meet her for many times and lands. She waits for each and other, she waits for all men born, forgets the earth her mother, the life of fruits in corn, and spring in seed in swallow, take leave for her and follow, or summer song rings hollow, and flowers are put to scorn. There go the loves that wither, the old loves with wearier wings, and all dead ears draw through there, and all disastrous things, dead dreams of days forsaken, blind buds that snows have shaken, wild leaves that wings have taken, red strays of ruined springs. We are not sure of sorrow, enjoy was never sure, today will die tomorrow, time steeps to no lands lore, and love grim fainting and fretful, with lips but half regretful, size and with eyes forgetful, we eat that no loves endure, from too much love of living, from open fear set free, we think with breath thanksgiving, whatever gods may be, that no life lives forever, that dead men rise up never, that even the weariest river, winds somewhere safe to see, then star in her sun shall wake him, nor any change of light, nor sound of water shaken, nor any sound or sight, nor which release nor vernal, nor days nor thanks diurnal, only the sleep eternal and eternal night.