The Haven

Ah, wherefore so unkind?

Let my sad breast
At the hid centre find
It's place of rest.

No wind of good or ill
Shall enter there,
But peace, supremely still,
Supremely fair.

To me the flux of things
Brings sore distress;
The world's mutation brings
But heaviness.

Therefore I, Tuka, cry,
Clinging thy feet,
"Break, break my 'me' and 'my,'
My vain conceit."