Invocation
Reading edition
UPON this flat, misshapen day My weary sullen thoughts grow grey— Grey waters, and grey, sunless cliffs, Bleak gaiety of flowers, whiffs Of loneliness, ah loneliness To ever clasp in my caress. And shall I, poor mazed lunatic, When memories come crowding thick, Dangle a silly mandrake-root, Swinging upon Time’s parachute? Can thoughts have colours, colours thoughts, Or do I wander midst the orts Of half-forgotten nightmare-pyres? We poets have exchanged our lyres For heart-strings. We have souls to save From boredom; come then, let’s be brave And sing the baser passions, sing Until the blood jerked up will ring A matins for our lusts and shames, And men will tingle at our names.