My shy hand shades a hermitage apart, - <br />O large enough for thee, and thy brief hours. <br />Life there is sweeter held than in God's heart, <br />Stiller than in the heavens of hollow flowers. <br /> <br /> <br />The wine is gladder there than in gold bowls. <br />And Time shall not drain thence, nor trouble spill. <br />Sources between my fingers feed all souls, <br />Where thou mayest cool thy lips, and draw thy fill. <br /> <br /> <br />Five cushions hath my hand, for reveries; <br />And one deep pillow for thy brow's fatigues; <br />Languor of June all winterlong, and ease <br />For ever from the vain untravelled leagues. <br /> <br /> <br />Thither your years may gather in from storm, <br />And Love, that sleepeth there, will keep thee warm.<br /><br />Wilfred Owen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-shy-hand/
