I have longed to move
From the hissing of the spent
And the old terrors' continual
Growing more terrible as the
Goes over the hill into the deep sea;
I have longed to move
From the repetition of salutes,
For there are ghosts in the
And ghostly echoes on paper,
And the thunder of calls and notes.
I have longed to move away but am afraid;
Some life, yet unspent, might
Out of the old lie burning on the ground,
And, crackling into the air, leave me half-blind.
Neither by night's ancient fear,
The parting of hat from hair,
Pursed lips at the receiver,
Shall I fall to death's feather.
By these I would not care to die,
Half convention and half lie.
