Thy hand hath stopped my fall and lifted me
To quell my tears, and cool my fervid cheeks;
Withal thy power hast thou known its plea:
To grant my heart this respite that it seeks.
Tomorrow, shall I write for thee, although
The Gods are neither fooled nor do they sleep,
But smile upon thee; surely do They know
I sing with joy their deeds an ne’er I weep.
But sweetly given me hast thou my voice,
And moved my spirit; for my hand is thine
To take thy gifted rest; though fear my choice:
That rest will fall to apathy’s decline.
Yet might for me despair make worse my plight;
Tomorrow, with thy gifts, for thee I write.
All your spirits are low
and the tears are hot
on your checks
then I would do anything
in my power
to give you peace.
If I could write today
if I could fool the Gods
as they sleep
into thinking that your voice
speaks through my hand
for one brief moment
to give you rest
to buy you time
then I would write today.