Toward my lord I lean my weary head,
But in my heart is longing for my home.
Would in my grave that I were lying dead,
Far from the golden weariness of Rome.
I am aweary of the weary games.
Of blood and death my tired heart is full.
Nor fight of gladiators wins me now.
Nor combat with the Lithuanian bull.
When with my weary hands I try to shut
The thunder of the chariots from mine ears,
The thunder of the surf along the shore
Where is my home, my little sister hears.
And when my maidens lift the heavy band
Of gold and set it low upon my brow,
My little sister pulls a garland sweet
From hedges where the faint wild-roses blow.
When in my weary arms my Roman lord
Lies sleeping, from mine eyes the tears start:
Far, far away, my little sister lies
Beside my love, and sleeps against his heart.
(Ethel Clifford)
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Based on Topics: Love Poems, Home Poems, Sleep Poems, Gold Poems, Lies & Deceit Poems, Sleeping Poems, Games PoemsBased on Keywords: aweary, gladiators, lithuanian, wild-roses