The Burden of Everyday

O angel bird, O winged word whom I
Have often in my nest of verse’s weaving
Detained, before you hurtled back to the sky:
May the wind of your wings’ shuddering
Never cease to tremble through the knotted tree—
Though falling leaves and days conspire to crime
Against the rooted peace, and bring, maybe,
Tormented turns and twists of Time.

Everything will fail; and the tired heart
Will beat but Death’s horrid drums;—and yet,
May in my veins some subtle token throb
Of those ultimate moments, when, in the pride of my art,
I could bid that dolt of Time to stop,
Count Death a gossip’s tale, and forget
The burden of boredom, the days’ compulsory sway,
That ponderous, murderous burden of everyday.