Earth

Frances Stevens

Earth is horned and young. Earth is Pan asleep.
In the dark pastures of his brain
He counts eternally the hurdling sheep.
He puffs up snores that spin a weather-vane
In the high spaces, where the great cock God
Shifts to the windy outlet of Earth's dreams.
He dreams of strength and wars. Over his broad
And sunburnt back, tremolos of rapture run. He steams
With sweaty thoughts of wrestling in the skies.
He pants and twitches after starry blows,
And shakes the cities off like tickling flies.

Earth never wakes. Earth only knows
A vast sleep, and under him a windy bed,
And dreams that blow like whirlwinds in his head.