The Eyes

Rest Master, for we be a-weary, weary And would feel the fingers of the wind Upon these lids that lie over us Sodden and lead-heavy. Rest brother, for lo ! the dawn is without ! The yellow flame paleth And the wax runs low. Free us, for without be goodly colours, Green of the wood-moss and flower colours, And coolness beneath the trees. Free us, for we perish In this ever-flowing monotony Of ugly print marks, black Upon white parchment. Free us, for there is one Whose smile more availeth Than all the age-old knowledge of thy books: And we would look thereon.