Here then at home, by no more storms distrest, Folding laborious hands we sit, wings furled; Here in close perfume lies the rose-leaf curled, Here the sun stands and knows not east nor west, Here no tide runs; we have come, last and best, From the wide zone in dizzying circles hurled To that still center where the spinning world Sleeps on its axis, to the heart of rest. Lay on thy whips, O Love, that we upright, Poised on the perilous point, in no lax bed May sleep, as tension at the verberant core Of music sleeps; for, if thou spare to smite, Staggering, we stoop, stooping, fall dumb and
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