CANTO V

1Through bearded cliffs a valley has driven thus deepIts wedge into the mountain and no more.The faint track of the farthest-wandering sheepEnds here, and the grey hollows at their coreOf silence feel the dulled continuous roarOf higher streams. At every step the skiesGrow less and in their place black ridges rise.2Hither, long after noon, with plodding treadAnd eyes on earth, grown dogged, Dymer came,Who all the long day in the woods had fledFrom the horror of those lips that screamed his nameAnd cursed him. Busy wonder and keen shameWere driving him, and little thoughts like beesFollowed and pricked him on and left no ease.3Now, when he looked and saw this emptinessSeven times enfolded in the idle hills,There came a chilly pause to his distress,A cloud of the deep world despair that fillsA man’s heart like the incoming tide and killsAll pains except its own. In that broad seaNo hope, no change, and no regret can be.4He felt the eternal strength of the silly earth,The unhastening circuit of the stars and sea,The business of perpetual death and birth,The meaningless precision. All must beThe same and still the same in each degree—Who cared now? And he smiled and could forgive,Believing that for sure he would not live.5Then, where he saw a little water runBeneath a bush, he slept. The chills of MayCame dropping and the stars peered one by oneOut of the deepening blue, while far awayThe western brightness dulled to bars of grey.Half-way to midnight, suddenly, from dreamingHe woke wide into present horror, screaming.6For he had dreamt of being in the armsOf his beloved and in quiet places;But all at once it filled with night alarmsAnd rapping guns: and men with splintered faces,—No eyes, no nose, all red—were running racesWith worms along the floor. And he ran outTo find the girl and shouted: and that shout7Had carried him into the waking world.There stood the concave, vast, unfriendly night,And over him the scroll of stars unfurled.Then wailing like a child he rose uprightHeart-sick with desolation. The new blightOf loss had nipt him sore, and sad self-pityThinking of her—then thinking of the City.8For, in each moment’s thought, the deeds of Bran,The burning and the blood and his own shame,Would tease him into madness till he ranFor refuge to the thought of her; whence cameUtter and endless loss—no, not a name,Not a word, nothing left—himself aloneCrying amid that valley of old stone,9“How soon it all ran out! And I supposeThey, they up there, the old contriving powers,They knew it all the time—for someone knowsAnd waits and watches till we pluck the flowers,Then leaps. So soon—my store of happy hoursAll gone before I knew. I have expendedMy whole wealth in a day. It’s finished, ended.10“And nothing left. Can it be possibleThat joy flows through and, when the course is run,It leaves no change, no mark on us to tellIts passing? And as poor as we’ve begunWe end the richest day? What we have won,Can it all die like this?... Joy flickers onThe razor-edge of the present and is gone.11“What have I done to bear upon my nameThe curse of Bran? I was not of his crew,Nor any man’s. And Dymer has the blame—What have I done? Wronged whom? I never knew.What’s Bran to me? I had my deed to doAnd ran out by myself, alone and free.—Why should earth sing with joy and not for me?12“Ah, but the earth never did sing for joy....There is a glamour on the leaf and flowerAnd April comes and whistles to a boyOver white fields: and, beauty has such powerUpon us, he believes her in that hour,For who could not believe? Can it be false,All that the blackbird says and the wind calls?13“What have I done? No living thing I madeNor wished to suffer harm. I sought my goodBecause the spring was gloriously arrayedAnd the blue eyebright misted all the wood.Yet to obey that springtime and my blood,This was to be unarmed and off my guardAnd gave God time to hit once and hit hard.14“The men build right who made that City of ours,They knew their world. A man must crouch to faceInfinite malice, watching at all hours,Shut nature out—give her no moment’s spaceFor entry. The first needs of all our raceAre walls, a den, a cover. Traitor IWho first ran out beneath the open sky.15“Our fortress and fenced place I made to fall,I slipt the sentries and let in the foe.I have lost my brothers and my love and all.Nothing is left but me. Now let me go.I have seen the world stripped naked and I know.Great God, take back your world. I will have noneOf all your glittering gauds but death alone.”16Meanwhile the earth swung round in hollow night.Souls without number in all nations slept,Snug on her back, safe speeding towards the light,Hours tolled, and in damp woods the night beast crept,And over the long seas the watch was keptIn black ships, twinkling onward, green and red:Always the ordered stars moved overhead.17And no one knew that Dymer in his scalesHad weighed all these and found them nothing worth.Indifferently the dawn that never failsTroubled the east of night with gradual birth,Whispering a change of colours on cold earth,And a bird woke, then two. The sunlight ranAlong the hills and yellow day began.18But stagnant gloom clung in the valley yet;Hills crowded out a third part of the sky,Black-looking, and the boulders dripped with wet:No bird sang. Dymer, shivering, heaved a sighAnd yawned and said: “It’s cruel work to dieOf hunger”; and again, with cloudy breathBlown between chattering teeth, “It’s a bad death.”19He crouched and clasped his hands about his kneesAnd hugged his own limbs for the pitiful senseOf homeliness they had—familiars these,This body, at least, his own, his last defence.But soon his morning misery drove him thence,Eating his heart, to wander as chance ledOn, upward, to the narrowing gulley’s head.20The cloud lay on the nearest mountain-topAs from a giant’s chimney smoking there,But Dymer took no heed. Sometimes he’d stop,Sometimes he hurried faster, as despairPricked deeper, and cried out: “Even now, somewhere,Bran with his crew’s at work. They rack, they burn,And there’s no help in me. I’ve served their turn.”21Meanwhile the furrowed fog rolled down ahead,Long tatters of its vanguard smearing roundThe bases of the crags. Like cobweb shedDown the deep combes it dulled the tinkling soundOf water on the hills. The spongy groundFaded three yards ahead: then nearer yetFell the cold wreathes, the white depth gleaming wet.22Then after a long time the path he trodLed downward. Then all suddenly it dippedFar steeper, and yet steeper, with smooth sod.He was half running now. A stone that slippedBeneath him, rattled headlong down: he tripped,Stumbled and clutched—then panic, and no hopeTo stop himself, once lost upon that slope.23And faster, ever faster, and his eyeCaught tree-tops far below. The nightmare feelingHad gripped him. He was screaming: and the skySeemed hanging upside down. Then struggling, reeling,With effort beyond thought he hung half kneeling,Halted one saving moment With wild willHe clawed into the hillside and lay still,24Half hanging on both arms. His idle feetDangled and found no hold. The moor lay wetAgainst him and he sweated with the heatOf terror, all alive. His teeth were set.“By God, I will not die,” said he. “Not yet.”Then slowly, slowly, with enormous strain,He heaved himself an inch: then heaved again,25Till saved and spent he lay. He felt indeedIt was the big, round world beneath his breast,The mother planet proven at his need.The shame of glad surrender stood confessed,He cared not for his boasts. This, this was best,This giving up of all. He need not strive;He panted, he lay still, he was alive.26And now his eyes were closed. Perhaps he sleptLapt in unearthly quiet—never knewHow bit by bit the fog’s white rearguard creptOver the crest and faded, and the blueFirst brightening at the zenith trembled throughAnd deepening shadows took a sharper formEach moment, and the sandy earth grew warm.27Yet, dreaming of blue skies, in dream he heardThe pure voice of a lark that seemed to sendIts song from heights beyond all height That birdSang out of heaven, “The world will never end,”Sang from the gates of heaven, “Will never end,”Sang till it seemed there was no other thingBut bright space and one voice set there to sing.28It seemed to be the murmur and the voiceOf beings beyond number, each and allSinging I am. Each of itself made choiceAnd was: whence flows the justice that men callDivine. She keeps the great worlds lest they fallFrom hour to hour, and makes the hills renewTheir ancient youth and sweetens all things through.29It seemed to be the low voice of the worldBrooding alone beneath the strength of things,Murmuring of days and nights and years unfurledForever, and the unwearied joy that bringsOut of old fields the flowers of unborn springs,Out of old wars and cities burned with wrong,A splendour in the dark, a tale, a song.30The dream ran thin towards waking, and he knewIt was a bird’s piping with no sense.He rolled round on his back. The sudden blue,Quivering with light, hard, cloudless and intense,Shone over him. The lark still sounded thenceAnd stirred him at the heart Some spacious thoughtWas passing by too gently to be caught.31With that he thrust the damp hair from his faceAnd sat upright. The perilous cliff dropped sheerBefore him, close at hand, and from his placeListening in mountain silence he could hearBirds crying far below. It was not fearThat took him, but strange glory, when his eyeLooked past the edge into surrounding sky.32He rose and stood. Then lo! the world beneath—Wide pools that in the sun-splashed foot hills lay,Sheep-dotted downs, soft-piled, and rolling heath,River and shining weir and steeples greyAnd the green waves of forest Far awayDistance rose heaped on distance: nearer hand,The white roads leading down to a new land.

Through bearded cliffs a valley has driven thus deepIts wedge into the mountain and no more.The faint track of the farthest-wandering sheepEnds here, and the grey hollows at their coreOf silence feel the dulled continuous roarOf higher streams. At every step the skiesGrow less and in their place black ridges rise.

Through bearded cliffs a valley has driven thus deep

Its wedge into the mountain and no more.

The faint track of the farthest-wandering sheep

Ends here, and the grey hollows at their core

Of silence feel the dulled continuous roar

Of higher streams. At every step the skies

Grow less and in their place black ridges rise.

Hither, long after noon, with plodding treadAnd eyes on earth, grown dogged, Dymer came,Who all the long day in the woods had fledFrom the horror of those lips that screamed his nameAnd cursed him. Busy wonder and keen shameWere driving him, and little thoughts like beesFollowed and pricked him on and left no ease.

Hither, long after noon, with plodding tread

And eyes on earth, grown dogged, Dymer came,

Who all the long day in the woods had fled

From the horror of those lips that screamed his name

And cursed him. Busy wonder and keen shame

Were driving him, and little thoughts like bees

Followed and pricked him on and left no ease.

Now, when he looked and saw this emptinessSeven times enfolded in the idle hills,There came a chilly pause to his distress,A cloud of the deep world despair that fillsA man’s heart like the incoming tide and killsAll pains except its own. In that broad seaNo hope, no change, and no regret can be.

Now, when he looked and saw this emptiness

Seven times enfolded in the idle hills,

There came a chilly pause to his distress,

A cloud of the deep world despair that fills

A man’s heart like the incoming tide and kills

All pains except its own. In that broad sea

No hope, no change, and no regret can be.

He felt the eternal strength of the silly earth,The unhastening circuit of the stars and sea,The business of perpetual death and birth,The meaningless precision. All must beThe same and still the same in each degree—Who cared now? And he smiled and could forgive,Believing that for sure he would not live.

He felt the eternal strength of the silly earth,

The unhastening circuit of the stars and sea,

The business of perpetual death and birth,

The meaningless precision. All must be

The same and still the same in each degree—

Who cared now? And he smiled and could forgive,

Believing that for sure he would not live.

Then, where he saw a little water runBeneath a bush, he slept. The chills of MayCame dropping and the stars peered one by oneOut of the deepening blue, while far awayThe western brightness dulled to bars of grey.Half-way to midnight, suddenly, from dreamingHe woke wide into present horror, screaming.

Then, where he saw a little water run

Beneath a bush, he slept. The chills of May

Came dropping and the stars peered one by one

Out of the deepening blue, while far away

The western brightness dulled to bars of grey.

Half-way to midnight, suddenly, from dreaming

He woke wide into present horror, screaming.

For he had dreamt of being in the armsOf his beloved and in quiet places;But all at once it filled with night alarmsAnd rapping guns: and men with splintered faces,—No eyes, no nose, all red—were running racesWith worms along the floor. And he ran outTo find the girl and shouted: and that shout

For he had dreamt of being in the arms

Of his beloved and in quiet places;

But all at once it filled with night alarms

And rapping guns: and men with splintered faces,

—No eyes, no nose, all red—were running races

With worms along the floor. And he ran out

To find the girl and shouted: and that shout

Had carried him into the waking world.There stood the concave, vast, unfriendly night,And over him the scroll of stars unfurled.Then wailing like a child he rose uprightHeart-sick with desolation. The new blightOf loss had nipt him sore, and sad self-pityThinking of her—then thinking of the City.

Had carried him into the waking world.

There stood the concave, vast, unfriendly night,

And over him the scroll of stars unfurled.

Then wailing like a child he rose upright

Heart-sick with desolation. The new blight

Of loss had nipt him sore, and sad self-pity

Thinking of her—then thinking of the City.

For, in each moment’s thought, the deeds of Bran,The burning and the blood and his own shame,Would tease him into madness till he ranFor refuge to the thought of her; whence cameUtter and endless loss—no, not a name,Not a word, nothing left—himself aloneCrying amid that valley of old stone,

For, in each moment’s thought, the deeds of Bran,

The burning and the blood and his own shame,

Would tease him into madness till he ran

For refuge to the thought of her; whence came

Utter and endless loss—no, not a name,

Not a word, nothing left—himself alone

Crying amid that valley of old stone,

“How soon it all ran out! And I supposeThey, they up there, the old contriving powers,They knew it all the time—for someone knowsAnd waits and watches till we pluck the flowers,Then leaps. So soon—my store of happy hoursAll gone before I knew. I have expendedMy whole wealth in a day. It’s finished, ended.

“How soon it all ran out! And I suppose

They, they up there, the old contriving powers,

They knew it all the time—for someone knows

And waits and watches till we pluck the flowers,

Then leaps. So soon—my store of happy hours

All gone before I knew. I have expended

My whole wealth in a day. It’s finished, ended.

“And nothing left. Can it be possibleThat joy flows through and, when the course is run,It leaves no change, no mark on us to tellIts passing? And as poor as we’ve begunWe end the richest day? What we have won,Can it all die like this?... Joy flickers onThe razor-edge of the present and is gone.

“And nothing left. Can it be possible

That joy flows through and, when the course is run,

It leaves no change, no mark on us to tell

Its passing? And as poor as we’ve begun

We end the richest day? What we have won,

Can it all die like this?... Joy flickers on

The razor-edge of the present and is gone.

“What have I done to bear upon my nameThe curse of Bran? I was not of his crew,Nor any man’s. And Dymer has the blame—What have I done? Wronged whom? I never knew.What’s Bran to me? I had my deed to doAnd ran out by myself, alone and free.—Why should earth sing with joy and not for me?

“What have I done to bear upon my name

The curse of Bran? I was not of his crew,

Nor any man’s. And Dymer has the blame—

What have I done? Wronged whom? I never knew.

What’s Bran to me? I had my deed to do

And ran out by myself, alone and free.

—Why should earth sing with joy and not for me?

“Ah, but the earth never did sing for joy....There is a glamour on the leaf and flowerAnd April comes and whistles to a boyOver white fields: and, beauty has such powerUpon us, he believes her in that hour,For who could not believe? Can it be false,All that the blackbird says and the wind calls?

“Ah, but the earth never did sing for joy....

There is a glamour on the leaf and flower

And April comes and whistles to a boy

Over white fields: and, beauty has such power

Upon us, he believes her in that hour,

For who could not believe? Can it be false,

All that the blackbird says and the wind calls?

“What have I done? No living thing I madeNor wished to suffer harm. I sought my goodBecause the spring was gloriously arrayedAnd the blue eyebright misted all the wood.Yet to obey that springtime and my blood,This was to be unarmed and off my guardAnd gave God time to hit once and hit hard.

“What have I done? No living thing I made

Nor wished to suffer harm. I sought my good

Because the spring was gloriously arrayed

And the blue eyebright misted all the wood.

Yet to obey that springtime and my blood,

This was to be unarmed and off my guard

And gave God time to hit once and hit hard.

“The men build right who made that City of ours,They knew their world. A man must crouch to faceInfinite malice, watching at all hours,Shut nature out—give her no moment’s spaceFor entry. The first needs of all our raceAre walls, a den, a cover. Traitor IWho first ran out beneath the open sky.

“The men build right who made that City of ours,

They knew their world. A man must crouch to face

Infinite malice, watching at all hours,

Shut nature out—give her no moment’s space

For entry. The first needs of all our race

Are walls, a den, a cover. Traitor I

Who first ran out beneath the open sky.

“Our fortress and fenced place I made to fall,I slipt the sentries and let in the foe.I have lost my brothers and my love and all.Nothing is left but me. Now let me go.I have seen the world stripped naked and I know.Great God, take back your world. I will have noneOf all your glittering gauds but death alone.”

“Our fortress and fenced place I made to fall,

I slipt the sentries and let in the foe.

I have lost my brothers and my love and all.

Nothing is left but me. Now let me go.

I have seen the world stripped naked and I know.

Great God, take back your world. I will have none

Of all your glittering gauds but death alone.”

Meanwhile the earth swung round in hollow night.Souls without number in all nations slept,Snug on her back, safe speeding towards the light,Hours tolled, and in damp woods the night beast crept,And over the long seas the watch was keptIn black ships, twinkling onward, green and red:Always the ordered stars moved overhead.

Meanwhile the earth swung round in hollow night.

Souls without number in all nations slept,

Snug on her back, safe speeding towards the light,

Hours tolled, and in damp woods the night beast crept,

And over the long seas the watch was kept

In black ships, twinkling onward, green and red:

Always the ordered stars moved overhead.

And no one knew that Dymer in his scalesHad weighed all these and found them nothing worth.Indifferently the dawn that never failsTroubled the east of night with gradual birth,Whispering a change of colours on cold earth,And a bird woke, then two. The sunlight ranAlong the hills and yellow day began.

And no one knew that Dymer in his scales

Had weighed all these and found them nothing worth.

Indifferently the dawn that never fails

Troubled the east of night with gradual birth,

Whispering a change of colours on cold earth,

And a bird woke, then two. The sunlight ran

Along the hills and yellow day began.

But stagnant gloom clung in the valley yet;Hills crowded out a third part of the sky,Black-looking, and the boulders dripped with wet:No bird sang. Dymer, shivering, heaved a sighAnd yawned and said: “It’s cruel work to dieOf hunger”; and again, with cloudy breathBlown between chattering teeth, “It’s a bad death.”

But stagnant gloom clung in the valley yet;

Hills crowded out a third part of the sky,

Black-looking, and the boulders dripped with wet:

No bird sang. Dymer, shivering, heaved a sigh

And yawned and said: “It’s cruel work to die

Of hunger”; and again, with cloudy breath

Blown between chattering teeth, “It’s a bad death.”

He crouched and clasped his hands about his kneesAnd hugged his own limbs for the pitiful senseOf homeliness they had—familiars these,This body, at least, his own, his last defence.But soon his morning misery drove him thence,Eating his heart, to wander as chance ledOn, upward, to the narrowing gulley’s head.

He crouched and clasped his hands about his knees

And hugged his own limbs for the pitiful sense

Of homeliness they had—familiars these,

This body, at least, his own, his last defence.

But soon his morning misery drove him thence,

Eating his heart, to wander as chance led

On, upward, to the narrowing gulley’s head.

The cloud lay on the nearest mountain-topAs from a giant’s chimney smoking there,But Dymer took no heed. Sometimes he’d stop,Sometimes he hurried faster, as despairPricked deeper, and cried out: “Even now, somewhere,Bran with his crew’s at work. They rack, they burn,And there’s no help in me. I’ve served their turn.”

The cloud lay on the nearest mountain-top

As from a giant’s chimney smoking there,

But Dymer took no heed. Sometimes he’d stop,

Sometimes he hurried faster, as despair

Pricked deeper, and cried out: “Even now, somewhere,

Bran with his crew’s at work. They rack, they burn,

And there’s no help in me. I’ve served their turn.”

Meanwhile the furrowed fog rolled down ahead,Long tatters of its vanguard smearing roundThe bases of the crags. Like cobweb shedDown the deep combes it dulled the tinkling soundOf water on the hills. The spongy groundFaded three yards ahead: then nearer yetFell the cold wreathes, the white depth gleaming wet.

Meanwhile the furrowed fog rolled down ahead,

Long tatters of its vanguard smearing round

The bases of the crags. Like cobweb shed

Down the deep combes it dulled the tinkling sound

Of water on the hills. The spongy ground

Faded three yards ahead: then nearer yet

Fell the cold wreathes, the white depth gleaming wet.

Then after a long time the path he trodLed downward. Then all suddenly it dippedFar steeper, and yet steeper, with smooth sod.He was half running now. A stone that slippedBeneath him, rattled headlong down: he tripped,Stumbled and clutched—then panic, and no hopeTo stop himself, once lost upon that slope.

Then after a long time the path he trod

Led downward. Then all suddenly it dipped

Far steeper, and yet steeper, with smooth sod.

He was half running now. A stone that slipped

Beneath him, rattled headlong down: he tripped,

Stumbled and clutched—then panic, and no hope

To stop himself, once lost upon that slope.

And faster, ever faster, and his eyeCaught tree-tops far below. The nightmare feelingHad gripped him. He was screaming: and the skySeemed hanging upside down. Then struggling, reeling,With effort beyond thought he hung half kneeling,Halted one saving moment With wild willHe clawed into the hillside and lay still,

And faster, ever faster, and his eye

Caught tree-tops far below. The nightmare feeling

Had gripped him. He was screaming: and the sky

Seemed hanging upside down. Then struggling, reeling,

With effort beyond thought he hung half kneeling,

Halted one saving moment With wild will

He clawed into the hillside and lay still,

Half hanging on both arms. His idle feetDangled and found no hold. The moor lay wetAgainst him and he sweated with the heatOf terror, all alive. His teeth were set.“By God, I will not die,” said he. “Not yet.”Then slowly, slowly, with enormous strain,He heaved himself an inch: then heaved again,

Half hanging on both arms. His idle feet

Dangled and found no hold. The moor lay wet

Against him and he sweated with the heat

Of terror, all alive. His teeth were set.

“By God, I will not die,” said he. “Not yet.”

Then slowly, slowly, with enormous strain,

He heaved himself an inch: then heaved again,

Till saved and spent he lay. He felt indeedIt was the big, round world beneath his breast,The mother planet proven at his need.The shame of glad surrender stood confessed,He cared not for his boasts. This, this was best,This giving up of all. He need not strive;He panted, he lay still, he was alive.

Till saved and spent he lay. He felt indeed

It was the big, round world beneath his breast,

The mother planet proven at his need.

The shame of glad surrender stood confessed,

He cared not for his boasts. This, this was best,

This giving up of all. He need not strive;

He panted, he lay still, he was alive.

And now his eyes were closed. Perhaps he sleptLapt in unearthly quiet—never knewHow bit by bit the fog’s white rearguard creptOver the crest and faded, and the blueFirst brightening at the zenith trembled throughAnd deepening shadows took a sharper formEach moment, and the sandy earth grew warm.

And now his eyes were closed. Perhaps he slept

Lapt in unearthly quiet—never knew

How bit by bit the fog’s white rearguard crept

Over the crest and faded, and the blue

First brightening at the zenith trembled through

And deepening shadows took a sharper form

Each moment, and the sandy earth grew warm.

Yet, dreaming of blue skies, in dream he heardThe pure voice of a lark that seemed to sendIts song from heights beyond all height That birdSang out of heaven, “The world will never end,”Sang from the gates of heaven, “Will never end,”Sang till it seemed there was no other thingBut bright space and one voice set there to sing.

Yet, dreaming of blue skies, in dream he heard

The pure voice of a lark that seemed to send

Its song from heights beyond all height That bird

Sang out of heaven, “The world will never end,”

Sang from the gates of heaven, “Will never end,”

Sang till it seemed there was no other thing

But bright space and one voice set there to sing.

It seemed to be the murmur and the voiceOf beings beyond number, each and allSinging I am. Each of itself made choiceAnd was: whence flows the justice that men callDivine. She keeps the great worlds lest they fallFrom hour to hour, and makes the hills renewTheir ancient youth and sweetens all things through.

It seemed to be the murmur and the voice

Of beings beyond number, each and all

Singing I am. Each of itself made choice

And was: whence flows the justice that men call

Divine. She keeps the great worlds lest they fall

From hour to hour, and makes the hills renew

Their ancient youth and sweetens all things through.

It seemed to be the low voice of the worldBrooding alone beneath the strength of things,Murmuring of days and nights and years unfurledForever, and the unwearied joy that bringsOut of old fields the flowers of unborn springs,Out of old wars and cities burned with wrong,A splendour in the dark, a tale, a song.

It seemed to be the low voice of the world

Brooding alone beneath the strength of things,

Murmuring of days and nights and years unfurled

Forever, and the unwearied joy that brings

Out of old fields the flowers of unborn springs,

Out of old wars and cities burned with wrong,

A splendour in the dark, a tale, a song.

The dream ran thin towards waking, and he knewIt was a bird’s piping with no sense.He rolled round on his back. The sudden blue,Quivering with light, hard, cloudless and intense,Shone over him. The lark still sounded thenceAnd stirred him at the heart Some spacious thoughtWas passing by too gently to be caught.

The dream ran thin towards waking, and he knew

It was a bird’s piping with no sense.

He rolled round on his back. The sudden blue,

Quivering with light, hard, cloudless and intense,

Shone over him. The lark still sounded thence

And stirred him at the heart Some spacious thought

Was passing by too gently to be caught.

With that he thrust the damp hair from his faceAnd sat upright. The perilous cliff dropped sheerBefore him, close at hand, and from his placeListening in mountain silence he could hearBirds crying far below. It was not fearThat took him, but strange glory, when his eyeLooked past the edge into surrounding sky.

With that he thrust the damp hair from his face

And sat upright. The perilous cliff dropped sheer

Before him, close at hand, and from his place

Listening in mountain silence he could hear

Birds crying far below. It was not fear

That took him, but strange glory, when his eye

Looked past the edge into surrounding sky.

He rose and stood. Then lo! the world beneath—Wide pools that in the sun-splashed foot hills lay,Sheep-dotted downs, soft-piled, and rolling heath,River and shining weir and steeples greyAnd the green waves of forest Far awayDistance rose heaped on distance: nearer hand,The white roads leading down to a new land.

He rose and stood. Then lo! the world beneath

—Wide pools that in the sun-splashed foot hills lay,

Sheep-dotted downs, soft-piled, and rolling heath,

River and shining weir and steeples grey

And the green waves of forest Far away

Distance rose heaped on distance: nearer hand,

The white roads leading down to a new land.

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