Normale Version: The Labour of Night
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Christopher Brennan
1897 - 1918 Australien

The Labour of Night

What gems chill glitter yon, thrice dipt
in dusky Styx, or tears unshed
the spheres, in icy exile stript,
congeal in midnight's gaze of lead?

O thou crown'd catiff, o'er our head
whereon thine agelon wounds have dript
the dark arms of thy passion spread
dwarf the vast vault to a hard crypt.

Round thine eternal hour of woe
the abyss urges, a rigid throe,
whose woeful dark sees nought emerge,

save these, their consolation vain
and frozen on the helpless verge,
lonely, ecstatic fires of pain.