Clouded with purple bloom, his ivied trunks
From which the lone owl calls with his deep voice,
And, as the rooks pass homeward, overhead
The multitudinous murmuring of wings.
“All this I leave, and ways wherein my feet
Have grown familiar, to voyage out
Upon the darkness, void of any star.
But in this little moment which is mine,
While all my foes are sleeping, drunkenly,
Among the dying lights, the broken meats,