I seek the quietude of stones
Or of great oxen, dewlap-deep
In meadows of lush grass, where sleep
Drifts, tufted, on the air or drones
On flowery traffic. Sleep atones
For sin, comforting eyes that weep.
O'er me, Lethean darkness, creep
Unfelt as tides through dead men's bones!
In that metallic sea of hair,
Fragrance! I come to drown despair
Of wings in dark forgetfulness.
No love … Love is self-known, aspires
To heights unearthly. I ask less,—
Sleep born of satisfied desires.