'According to the Mighty Working'

Thomas Hardy

                         I

When moiling seems at cease
       In the vague void of night-time,
       And heaven's wide roomage stormless
       Between the dusk and light-time,
       And fear at last is formless,
We call the allurement Peace.

                         II

Peace, this hid riot, Change,
       This revel of quick-cued mumming,
       This never truly being,
       This evermore becoming,
       This spinner's wheel onfleeing
Outside perception's range.