I
When moiling seems at cease
In the vague void of night-time,
And heaven's wide roomage stormless
Between the dusk and light-time,
And fear at last is formless,
We call the allurement Peace.
II
Peace, this hid riot, Change,
This revel of quick-cued mumming,
This never truly being,
This evermore becoming,
This spinner's wheel onfleeing
Outside perception's range.
More verses by Thomas Hardy
- The Year's Awakening
- I Was Not He
- The Colonel's Solilquy.
- Winter In Durnover Field
- To An Orphan Child