Peter, in what peels of fear

have you looked, that, standing here,

I am lost in you as deep

As the little death of sleep?

Though I breathe here by your side,

And your eyes are dark and wide,

Nothing, nothing, can I tell,

though I lean as at a well.

And my eyes, accustomed, see

Ancient selves that you have slain

To quench a sickness and pain.

Beyond their shadows waver yet

Ghosts of names you must forget.

And a hunger what died

Crouches there unsatisfied -

All your agonies to tell

The secret that you knew so well -

All your brave clean lies -

Peter, Peter, shut your eyes.