My face is against the grass - the moorland grass is wet - <br />My eyes are shut against the grass, against my lips there are the little blades, <br />Over my head the curlews call, And now there is the night wind in my hair; <br />My heart is against the grass and the sweet earth, - it has gone still, at last; <br />It does not want to beat any more, <br />And why should it beat? <br />This is the end of the journey. <br />The Thing is found. <br /> <br />This is the end of all the roads - <br />Over the grass there is the night-dew <br />And the wind that drives up from the sea along the moorland road, <br />I hear a curlew start out from the heath <br />And fly off calling through the dusk, <br />The wild, long, rippling call -: <br />The Thing is found and I am quiet with the earth; <br />Perhaps the earth will hold it or the wind, or that bird's cry, <br />But it is not for long in any life I know. This cannot stay, <br />Not now, not yet, not in a dying world, with me, for very long; <br />I leave it here: <br />And one day the wet grass may give it back - <br />One day the quiet earth may give it back - <br />The calling birds may give it back as they go by - <br />To someone walking on the moor who starves for love and will not know <br />Who gave it to all these to give away; <br />Or, if I come and ask for it again <br />Oh! then, to me.<br /><br />Charlotte Mary Mew<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/moorland-night/
