The Sleeper

My soul fell asleep, asleep in a great city, among the leering faces of her millions; The iron hoofs of many strange and monstrous animals ground their imprint in my prescient white Self that lay stark and helpless on the highways of the world: O my Soul, my Soul, awake thou! The waves have gone over me and crawling things with fiery eyes have wriggled onto the white throne where I ruled, And the old seven deadly delights have kissed me each one and licked up my strength with their smooth yellow tongues: O my Soul, my Soul, awake thou! O the terror of sleep and of Me who am blotted, erased and spun into things that are vile and grosser than compost, And the long death of Me that drank of this hemlock of earth that brings not the death that is surcease--only a death of vile dreaming, a lapsing without a forgetting: O my Soul, my Soul, awake thou! Out of their crypts stalk my elder old selves, and whilst I stare with the impotent eye set in the head of the dead they drive in the little brass rivets of habit to the core of my being: O my Soul, my Soul, awake thou!