Poems (Tree)/Slowly the Pale Feet of Morning
SLOWLY the pale feet of morningTread out the ashes of midnight still burning with feverous lamplight, Colourless, cold, as the raincladSleep-drugged river that carries the wreckage of cities out sea-ward. Slowly the fingers of dawn-lightSnuff out the candles that yearned to those Gods of delirium, Sleep-huge as shadows grimacingFrom niches made black with the smoke of a fire-spangled passion. Smoothly the wild hair of darknessIs plaited for rest, and the faces of visions are covered with sleep veils. Patiently, Morning, the priestessDrones out a psalm for the souls that we damned in the blackness, Gashed with the daggers of street-lights,Crushing the poisonous berries of sinister kisses,— Morning with healing and kindnessFolds up the dresses dishevelled with terror and laughter, Sweeps up the rags of our shadowsThat danced in a red smoke of dreams on the walls of oblivion.
1919