And where, when beyond all the novel wonders,
the grasping crowds and desirous eyes -
Where, when beyond aching roars and reaching hands
Can you lay down your head at peace?
The heart swells at the adulation,
And pride puts forth its gilded, oiled hands to receive,
The body exults in luxery, stumbles in weariness.
Mind and soul are troubled.
For the mind remembers the long, slow
Creeping hours of waiting, the long, desperate
Hours and days and slowly fleeting times of the work,
The times of not knowing how it would be
A different sort of glory.
The soul cannot be kept from gently awakening
From its buried daydreams
The small boy that yet dwells in your breast,
The boy who slid his toys along the carpet
And gazed dreamingly out the windows on
A misted morning with eyes glinting with dreams;
As many as the droplets that slid down the pane.
The boy who imagined great adventures
But knew he could not achieve them:
The stenourous, disbelieving voice of a grandfather or father,
Or mother still twist in the small daily
wounds they inflicted back then. The words
Lie quiet, only stirring
In the small hours of the lonely nights
In strange hotels as you watch the streetlights painting
Squares of blue along the the walls.
You thought it should be the flashes of cameras and
Pressing in of crowds
To awaken them all, to rouse up in chorus;
But it is the quiet times.
The soul shakes the dreamer's shoulder and
The small boy wonders when the drops of sunlight on the pane
Turned from small suns of glory into weariness and tears.
When can you lay your head at peace?