All living things that be,
In nest or fold!—
All lives that solace take,
And dreamful ease, in tent, or wind-blown tree,
Or curtained couch, your wanderings forsake
In the dim realms of unreality!
Awake, for shame
Of languor's soft delight!
Lo, once again earth's heaving disk is rolled
In rosy flame,
And through the camps of night,
The flying Moon, beneath her splintered targe,
Sore-stricken by the feathered shafts of Dawn,
And harried by her hounds, like Actaeon, Kneels,
Stoops, and wheels
Adown the western marge!
- a stanza from Wishmakers' Town by William Young
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