The muse of fire is not admitted here.
Imaginary forces have no right
To prick their proud hooves on this tender place
And print impressions there.
This is sequestered space.
Nor dreams-that-come-from-Zeus, let them be light --
As insubstantial as the wind, as frail
As fleeing ghosts that slip across the gaze --
Here no intruding sight
Assaults the wash of greys,
The shadowed lavender, and, lichen-pale,
The creep of green across the hemming wall.
This plot belongs to Mnemosyne alone.
And here things past assail
The senses till they drown.
Except when Lady Mercy pays a call.
She drops in uninvited as the dawn
And scatters balm like petals on the floor.
Unquiet waxes small;
And ease engulfs the sore.