Sand hot to haunches:Sun beating eyes down,Yet they peer under lashesAt the hill’s crown:See how the hill slantsUp the sky half way;Over the top tall cloudsPoke, gold and grey.Down: see a green fieldTipped on its short edge,Its upper rim straggled roundBy a black hedge.Grass bright as new brass:Uneven dark gorseStuck to its own shadow,Like Judy that black horse.Birds clatter numberless,And the breeze tellsThat bean-flower somewhereHas ousted the blue-bells:Birds clatter numberless:In the muffled woodBig feet move slowly:Mean no good.
Sand hot to haunches:Sun beating eyes down,Yet they peer under lashesAt the hill’s crown:
Sand hot to haunches:
Sun beating eyes down,
Yet they peer under lashes
At the hill’s crown:
See how the hill slantsUp the sky half way;Over the top tall cloudsPoke, gold and grey.
See how the hill slants
Up the sky half way;
Over the top tall clouds
Poke, gold and grey.
Down: see a green fieldTipped on its short edge,Its upper rim straggled roundBy a black hedge.
Down: see a green field
Tipped on its short edge,
Its upper rim straggled round
By a black hedge.
Grass bright as new brass:Uneven dark gorseStuck to its own shadow,Like Judy that black horse.
Grass bright as new brass:
Uneven dark gorse
Stuck to its own shadow,
Like Judy that black horse.
Birds clatter numberless,And the breeze tellsThat bean-flower somewhereHas ousted the blue-bells:
Birds clatter numberless,
And the breeze tells
That bean-flower somewhere
Has ousted the blue-bells:
Birds clatter numberless:In the muffled woodBig feet move slowly:Mean no good.
Birds clatter numberless:
In the muffled wood
Big feet move slowly:
Mean no good.
Snow wind-whipt to iceUnder a hard sun:Stream-runnels curdled hoarCrackle, cannot run.Robin stark dead on twig,Song stiffened in it:Fluffed feathers may not warmBone-thin linnet:Big-eyed rabbit, lost,Scrabbles the snow,Searching for long-dead grassWith frost-bit toe:Mad-tired on the roadOld Kelly goes;Through crookt fingers snuffs the airKnife-cold in his nose.Hunger-weak, snow-dazzled,Old Thomas KellyThrusts his bit hands, for warmth’Twixt waistcoat and belly.
Snow wind-whipt to iceUnder a hard sun:Stream-runnels curdled hoarCrackle, cannot run.
Snow wind-whipt to ice
Under a hard sun:
Stream-runnels curdled hoar
Crackle, cannot run.
Robin stark dead on twig,Song stiffened in it:Fluffed feathers may not warmBone-thin linnet:
Robin stark dead on twig,
Song stiffened in it:
Fluffed feathers may not warm
Bone-thin linnet:
Big-eyed rabbit, lost,Scrabbles the snow,Searching for long-dead grassWith frost-bit toe:
Big-eyed rabbit, lost,
Scrabbles the snow,
Searching for long-dead grass
With frost-bit toe:
Mad-tired on the roadOld Kelly goes;Through crookt fingers snuffs the airKnife-cold in his nose.
Mad-tired on the road
Old Kelly goes;
Through crookt fingers snuffs the air
Knife-cold in his nose.
Hunger-weak, snow-dazzled,Old Thomas KellyThrusts his bit hands, for warmth’Twixt waistcoat and belly.
Hunger-weak, snow-dazzled,
Old Thomas Kelly
Thrusts his bit hands, for warmth
’Twixt waistcoat and belly.
Unguarded stands the shuttered sky:The creeping Thief of NightWith tool and hook begins to plyHis careful picking: he would pryAnd filch her coffered light.The soundless tapping of his barPricks out each sudden star.The soundless tapping of his barLets out the wealthy Moon:The frozen Bright goes arching farOn buttresses of lucid sparAnd lights the road to Cloun;And all the pouring of her richesFloats on the silent ditches.The crescent road is ivoryBetween the silver water:But squat and black and creeping, see,Blank as the shadow of a tree,Old Robert and his daughterToil on: and fearful, each descriesMoon-gleams in other’s eyes.
Unguarded stands the shuttered sky:The creeping Thief of NightWith tool and hook begins to plyHis careful picking: he would pryAnd filch her coffered light.The soundless tapping of his barPricks out each sudden star.
Unguarded stands the shuttered sky:
The creeping Thief of Night
With tool and hook begins to ply
His careful picking: he would pry
And filch her coffered light.
The soundless tapping of his bar
Pricks out each sudden star.
The soundless tapping of his barLets out the wealthy Moon:The frozen Bright goes arching farOn buttresses of lucid sparAnd lights the road to Cloun;And all the pouring of her richesFloats on the silent ditches.
The soundless tapping of his bar
Lets out the wealthy Moon:
The frozen Bright goes arching far
On buttresses of lucid spar
And lights the road to Cloun;
And all the pouring of her riches
Floats on the silent ditches.
The crescent road is ivoryBetween the silver water:But squat and black and creeping, see,Blank as the shadow of a tree,Old Robert and his daughterToil on: and fearful, each descriesMoon-gleams in other’s eyes.
The crescent road is ivory
Between the silver water:
But squat and black and creeping, see,
Blank as the shadow of a tree,
Old Robert and his daughter
Toil on: and fearful, each descries
Moon-gleams in other’s eyes.
The World is all orange-round:The sea smells salt between:The strong hills climb on their own backs,Coloured and damascene,Cloud-flecked and sunny-green;Knotted and straining up,Up, with still hands and cold:Grip at the slipping sky,Yet cannot hold:Round twists old Earth, and round ...Stillness not yet found.Plains like a flat dish, too,Shudder and spin:Roads in a pattern crawlScratched with a pinAcross the fields’ dim shagreen:—Dusty their load:But over the craggy hillsWanders the Walking Road!Broad as the hill’s broad,Rough as the world’s rough, too:Long as the Age is long,Ancient and true,Swinging, and broad, and long:—Craggy, strong.Gods sit like milestonesOn the edge of the Road, by the Moon’s sill;Man has feet, feet that swing, pound the high hillAbove and above, untilHe stumble and widely spillHis dusty bones.Round twists old Earth, and round ...Stillness not yet found.
The World is all orange-round:The sea smells salt between:The strong hills climb on their own backs,Coloured and damascene,Cloud-flecked and sunny-green;Knotted and straining up,Up, with still hands and cold:Grip at the slipping sky,Yet cannot hold:Round twists old Earth, and round ...Stillness not yet found.
The World is all orange-round:
The sea smells salt between:
The strong hills climb on their own backs,
Coloured and damascene,
Cloud-flecked and sunny-green;
Knotted and straining up,
Up, with still hands and cold:
Grip at the slipping sky,
Yet cannot hold:
Round twists old Earth, and round ...
Stillness not yet found.
Plains like a flat dish, too,Shudder and spin:Roads in a pattern crawlScratched with a pinAcross the fields’ dim shagreen:—Dusty their load:But over the craggy hillsWanders the Walking Road!
Plains like a flat dish, too,
Shudder and spin:
Roads in a pattern crawl
Scratched with a pin
Across the fields’ dim shagreen:
—Dusty their load:
But over the craggy hills
Wanders the Walking Road!
Broad as the hill’s broad,Rough as the world’s rough, too:Long as the Age is long,Ancient and true,Swinging, and broad, and long:—Craggy, strong.
Broad as the hill’s broad,
Rough as the world’s rough, too:
Long as the Age is long,
Ancient and true,
Swinging, and broad, and long:
—Craggy, strong.
Gods sit like milestonesOn the edge of the Road, by the Moon’s sill;Man has feet, feet that swing, pound the high hillAbove and above, untilHe stumble and widely spillHis dusty bones.
Gods sit like milestones
On the edge of the Road, by the Moon’s sill;
Man has feet, feet that swing, pound the high hill
Above and above, until
He stumble and widely spill
His dusty bones.
Round twists old Earth, and round ...Stillness not yet found.
Round twists old Earth, and round ...
Stillness not yet found.
Like gript stickStill I sit:Eyes fixed on far small eyes,Full of it:On the old, broad face,The hung chin;Heavy arms, surpliceWorn through and worn thin.Probe I the hid mindUnder the gross flesh:Clutch at poetic words,Follow their meshScarce heaving breath.Clutch, marvel, wonder,Till the words end.Stilled is the muttered thunder:The hard, few people wake,Gather their books and go ...—Whether their hearts could breakHow can I know?
Like gript stickStill I sit:Eyes fixed on far small eyes,Full of it:On the old, broad face,The hung chin;Heavy arms, surpliceWorn through and worn thin.Probe I the hid mindUnder the gross flesh:Clutch at poetic words,Follow their meshScarce heaving breath.Clutch, marvel, wonder,Till the words end.
Like gript stick
Still I sit:
Eyes fixed on far small eyes,
Full of it:
On the old, broad face,
The hung chin;
Heavy arms, surplice
Worn through and worn thin.
Probe I the hid mind
Under the gross flesh:
Clutch at poetic words,
Follow their mesh
Scarce heaving breath.
Clutch, marvel, wonder,
Till the words end.
Stilled is the muttered thunder:The hard, few people wake,Gather their books and go ...—Whether their hearts could breakHow can I know?
Stilled is the muttered thunder:
The hard, few people wake,
Gather their books and go ...
—Whether their hearts could break
How can I know?
Under the crags of Teiriwch,The door-sills of the Sun,Where God has left the bony earthJust as it was begun;Where clouds sail past like argosiesBreasting the crested hillsWith mainsail and foretopsailThat the thin breeze fills;With ballast of round thunder,And anchored with the rain;With a long shadow soundingThe deep, far plain:Where rocks are broken playthingsBy petulant gods hurled,And Heaven sits a-straddleThe roof-ridge of the World:—Under the crags of TeiriwchIs a round pile of stones,Large stones, small stones,—White as old bones;Some from high placesOr from the lake’s shore;And every man that passesAdds one more—The years it has been growingVerge on a hundred score.For in the Cave of TeiriwchThat scarce holds a sheep,Where plovers and rock-coniesAnd wild things sleep,A woman lived for ninety yearsOn bilberries and mossAnd lizards and small creeping things,And carved herself a cross:But wild hill robbersFound the ancient saintAnd dragged her to the sunlight,Making no complaint.Too old was she for weeping,Too shrivelled and too dry:She crouched and mumle-mumledAnd mumled to the sky.No breath had she for wailing,Her cheeks were paper-thin:She was, for all her holiness,As ugly as sin.They cramped her in a barrel—All but her bobbing head—And rolled her down from TeiriwchUntil she was dead:They took her out and buried her—Just broken bits of boneAnd rags and skin, and over herSet one small stone:But if you pass her sepulchreAnd add not one theretoThe ghost of that old murdered SaintWill roll in front of youThe whole night through.The clouds sail past in argosiesAnd cold drips the rain:The whole world is far and highAbove the tilted plain.The silent mists float eerily,And I am here alone:Dare I pass the place byAnd cast not a stone?
Under the crags of Teiriwch,The door-sills of the Sun,Where God has left the bony earthJust as it was begun;Where clouds sail past like argosiesBreasting the crested hillsWith mainsail and foretopsailThat the thin breeze fills;With ballast of round thunder,And anchored with the rain;With a long shadow soundingThe deep, far plain:Where rocks are broken playthingsBy petulant gods hurled,And Heaven sits a-straddleThe roof-ridge of the World:—Under the crags of TeiriwchIs a round pile of stones,Large stones, small stones,—White as old bones;Some from high placesOr from the lake’s shore;And every man that passesAdds one more—The years it has been growingVerge on a hundred score.
Under the crags of Teiriwch,
The door-sills of the Sun,
Where God has left the bony earth
Just as it was begun;
Where clouds sail past like argosies
Breasting the crested hills
With mainsail and foretopsail
That the thin breeze fills;
With ballast of round thunder,
And anchored with the rain;
With a long shadow sounding
The deep, far plain:
Where rocks are broken playthings
By petulant gods hurled,
And Heaven sits a-straddle
The roof-ridge of the World:
—Under the crags of Teiriwch
Is a round pile of stones,
Large stones, small stones,
—White as old bones;
Some from high places
Or from the lake’s shore;
And every man that passes
Adds one more—
The years it has been growing
Verge on a hundred score.
For in the Cave of TeiriwchThat scarce holds a sheep,Where plovers and rock-coniesAnd wild things sleep,A woman lived for ninety yearsOn bilberries and mossAnd lizards and small creeping things,And carved herself a cross:But wild hill robbersFound the ancient saintAnd dragged her to the sunlight,Making no complaint.Too old was she for weeping,Too shrivelled and too dry:She crouched and mumle-mumledAnd mumled to the sky.No breath had she for wailing,Her cheeks were paper-thin:She was, for all her holiness,As ugly as sin.
For in the Cave of Teiriwch
That scarce holds a sheep,
Where plovers and rock-conies
And wild things sleep,
A woman lived for ninety years
On bilberries and moss
And lizards and small creeping things,
And carved herself a cross:
But wild hill robbers
Found the ancient saint
And dragged her to the sunlight,
Making no complaint.
Too old was she for weeping,
Too shrivelled and too dry:
She crouched and mumle-mumled
And mumled to the sky.
No breath had she for wailing,
Her cheeks were paper-thin:
She was, for all her holiness,
As ugly as sin.
They cramped her in a barrel—All but her bobbing head—And rolled her down from TeiriwchUntil she was dead:They took her out and buried her—Just broken bits of boneAnd rags and skin, and over herSet one small stone:But if you pass her sepulchreAnd add not one theretoThe ghost of that old murdered SaintWill roll in front of youThe whole night through.
They cramped her in a barrel
—All but her bobbing head
—And rolled her down from Teiriwch
Until she was dead:
They took her out and buried her
—Just broken bits of bone
And rags and skin, and over her
Set one small stone:
But if you pass her sepulchre
And add not one thereto
The ghost of that old murdered Saint
Will roll in front of you
The whole night through.
The clouds sail past in argosiesAnd cold drips the rain:The whole world is far and highAbove the tilted plain.The silent mists float eerily,And I am here alone:
The clouds sail past in argosies
And cold drips the rain:
The whole world is far and high
Above the tilted plain.
The silent mists float eerily,
And I am here alone:
Dare I pass the place byAnd cast not a stone?
Dare I pass the place by
And cast not a stone?
Still is the leaden night:The film-eyed moonSpills hardly any light,But nods to sleep—And soonThrough five broad parishes there is no soundBut the far melancholy wooingOf evil-minded cats; and the late shoeingOf some unlucky filly by the ford.For twenty miles abroad there is no moving,But for the uncomfortable hoovingOf midnight cows a-row in Parson’s Lag:—That; and the slow twist of water round a snag.The silver mist that slumbers in the hollowDreams of a breeze, and turns upon its side,So sleep uneasy: but no breezes follow,Only the moon blinks slowly thrice, wan-eyed.—I think this is the most unhappy nightSince hot-cheeked Hecuba wept in the dawn.—There never was a more unhappy night,Not that when Hero’s lamp proved unavailing,Nor that when Bethlehem was filled with wailing ...... There is no reason for unhappiness,Save that the saddened stars have hid their faces,And that dun clouds usurp their brilliant places,And that the wind lacks even strength to sigh.And yet, as if outraged by some long tuneA dog cries dolefully, green-eyed in the moon ...
Still is the leaden night:The film-eyed moonSpills hardly any light,But nods to sleep—And soonThrough five broad parishes there is no soundBut the far melancholy wooingOf evil-minded cats; and the late shoeingOf some unlucky filly by the ford.
Still is the leaden night:
The film-eyed moon
Spills hardly any light,
But nods to sleep—And soon
Through five broad parishes there is no sound
But the far melancholy wooing
Of evil-minded cats; and the late shoeing
Of some unlucky filly by the ford.
For twenty miles abroad there is no moving,But for the uncomfortable hoovingOf midnight cows a-row in Parson’s Lag:—That; and the slow twist of water round a snag.
For twenty miles abroad there is no moving,
But for the uncomfortable hooving
Of midnight cows a-row in Parson’s Lag:
—That; and the slow twist of water round a snag.
The silver mist that slumbers in the hollowDreams of a breeze, and turns upon its side,So sleep uneasy: but no breezes follow,Only the moon blinks slowly thrice, wan-eyed.—I think this is the most unhappy nightSince hot-cheeked Hecuba wept in the dawn.—There never was a more unhappy night,Not that when Hero’s lamp proved unavailing,Nor that when Bethlehem was filled with wailing ...
The silver mist that slumbers in the hollow
Dreams of a breeze, and turns upon its side,
So sleep uneasy: but no breezes follow,
Only the moon blinks slowly thrice, wan-eyed.
—I think this is the most unhappy night
Since hot-cheeked Hecuba wept in the dawn.
—There never was a more unhappy night,
Not that when Hero’s lamp proved unavailing,
Nor that when Bethlehem was filled with wailing ...
... There is no reason for unhappiness,Save that the saddened stars have hid their faces,And that dun clouds usurp their brilliant places,And that the wind lacks even strength to sigh.
... There is no reason for unhappiness,
Save that the saddened stars have hid their faces,
And that dun clouds usurp their brilliant places,
And that the wind lacks even strength to sigh.
And yet, as if outraged by some long tuneA dog cries dolefully, green-eyed in the moon ...
And yet, as if outraged by some long tune
A dog cries dolefully, green-eyed in the moon ...
Sun in a warm streakStriping the plush:Catch breath, hold finger tight:All delight hush.Dance, small grey thingSleek in the warm sun:Roll around, to this, to that,—Rare wormy fun!Hot sun applauds thee:Warm fingers pressTo wake the small life withinThy rotund dress.Alack! Have years in cupboard,In chill and dark,Stifled thy discontent?Snufft thy spark?Liest thou stark, stiff,There in thy bed?Weep then a dirge for him:Poor Bean’s dead!
Sun in a warm streakStriping the plush:Catch breath, hold finger tight:All delight hush.
Sun in a warm streak
Striping the plush:
Catch breath, hold finger tight:
All delight hush.
Dance, small grey thingSleek in the warm sun:Roll around, to this, to that,—Rare wormy fun!
Dance, small grey thing
Sleek in the warm sun:
Roll around, to this, to that,
—Rare wormy fun!
Hot sun applauds thee:Warm fingers pressTo wake the small life withinThy rotund dress.
Hot sun applauds thee:
Warm fingers press
To wake the small life within
Thy rotund dress.
Alack! Have years in cupboard,In chill and dark,Stifled thy discontent?Snufft thy spark?
Alack! Have years in cupboard,
In chill and dark,
Stifled thy discontent?
Snufft thy spark?
Liest thou stark, stiff,There in thy bed?Weep then a dirge for him:Poor Bean’s dead!
Liest thou stark, stiff,
There in thy bed?
Weep then a dirge for him:
Poor Bean’s dead!
Green-eyed CareMay prowl and glareAnd poke his snub, be-whiskered nose:But Door fits tightAgainst the Night:Through criss-cross cracks no evil goes.Window is small:No room at allFor Worry and Money, his shoulder-bones:Chimney is wide,But Smoke’s insideAnd happy Smoke would smother his moans.Be-whiskered CareMay prowl out there:But I never heardHe caught the Blue Bird!
Green-eyed CareMay prowl and glareAnd poke his snub, be-whiskered nose:But Door fits tightAgainst the Night:Through criss-cross cracks no evil goes.
Green-eyed Care
May prowl and glare
And poke his snub, be-whiskered nose:
But Door fits tight
Against the Night:
Through criss-cross cracks no evil goes.
Window is small:No room at allFor Worry and Money, his shoulder-bones:Chimney is wide,But Smoke’s insideAnd happy Smoke would smother his moans.
Window is small:
No room at all
For Worry and Money, his shoulder-bones:
Chimney is wide,
But Smoke’s inside
And happy Smoke would smother his moans.
Be-whiskered CareMay prowl out there:But I never heardHe caught the Blue Bird!
Be-whiskered Care
May prowl out there:
But I never heard
He caught the Blue Bird!
Sidelong the Bird ran,Hard-eyed on the turned mould:Was door—window—wide?—Then Heart grew kettle-cold.Might no wind-suckt curtainDim that travelling Eye?Could Door’s thick benedictionDeafen: if he should cry?Sidelong the Bird creptInto the stark door:His yellow, lidless eye!Foot chill to the stone floor!... Then Smoke, that slender baby,To Hearth’s white Niobe-breastSank trembling—dead. Oh Bird,Bird, spare the rest!He has bidden bats to flitIn Window’s wide mouth:Starlings to tumble, and mockPoor Pot’s old rusty drouth:And a wet canker, nipThose round-breasted stonesThat I hugged to strong wallsWith the love of my strained bones.He bad lank Spider run,Grow busy, web me outWith dusty trespass stretchtFrom mantel to kettle-spout.Door, Window, Rafter, Chimney,Grow silent, die:All are dead: all moulder:Sole banished mourner I.See how the Past rustlesStirring to life again ...Three whole years left I locktBehind that window-pane.
Sidelong the Bird ran,Hard-eyed on the turned mould:Was door—window—wide?—Then Heart grew kettle-cold.
Sidelong the Bird ran,
Hard-eyed on the turned mould:
Was door—window—wide?
—Then Heart grew kettle-cold.
Might no wind-suckt curtainDim that travelling Eye?Could Door’s thick benedictionDeafen: if he should cry?
Might no wind-suckt curtain
Dim that travelling Eye?
Could Door’s thick benediction
Deafen: if he should cry?
Sidelong the Bird creptInto the stark door:His yellow, lidless eye!Foot chill to the stone floor!
Sidelong the Bird crept
Into the stark door:
His yellow, lidless eye!
Foot chill to the stone floor!
... Then Smoke, that slender baby,To Hearth’s white Niobe-breastSank trembling—dead. Oh Bird,Bird, spare the rest!
... Then Smoke, that slender baby,
To Hearth’s white Niobe-breast
Sank trembling—dead. Oh Bird,
Bird, spare the rest!
He has bidden bats to flitIn Window’s wide mouth:Starlings to tumble, and mockPoor Pot’s old rusty drouth:
He has bidden bats to flit
In Window’s wide mouth:
Starlings to tumble, and mock
Poor Pot’s old rusty drouth:
And a wet canker, nipThose round-breasted stonesThat I hugged to strong wallsWith the love of my strained bones.
And a wet canker, nip
Those round-breasted stones
That I hugged to strong walls
With the love of my strained bones.
He bad lank Spider run,Grow busy, web me outWith dusty trespass stretchtFrom mantel to kettle-spout.
He bad lank Spider run,
Grow busy, web me out
With dusty trespass stretcht
From mantel to kettle-spout.
Door, Window, Rafter, Chimney,Grow silent, die:All are dead: all moulder:Sole banished mourner I.
Door, Window, Rafter, Chimney,
Grow silent, die:
All are dead: all moulder:
Sole banished mourner I.
See how the Past rustlesStirring to life again ...Three whole years left I locktBehind that window-pane.
See how the Past rustles
Stirring to life again ...
Three whole years left I lockt
Behind that window-pane.
He is a man in love with grass,He shivers at a tree:Thrill of wing in briar-bushesWildly at his heart pushesLike the first, faint hintA lover is let see.If he had known a wordless songAs a bird he would sing;Who took delight in slim rabbits,Watched their delicate habits,—Waited, by the briar-bush,That flutter of wooing.Why did he break that small wing?The sun looks hollowly:Mocking’s where the water goes;The breeze bitter in his nose:Mocking eyes wide burning—Lost, lost is he!
He is a man in love with grass,He shivers at a tree:Thrill of wing in briar-bushesWildly at his heart pushesLike the first, faint hintA lover is let see.
He is a man in love with grass,
He shivers at a tree:
Thrill of wing in briar-bushes
Wildly at his heart pushes
Like the first, faint hint
A lover is let see.
If he had known a wordless songAs a bird he would sing;Who took delight in slim rabbits,Watched their delicate habits,—Waited, by the briar-bush,That flutter of wooing.
If he had known a wordless song
As a bird he would sing;
Who took delight in slim rabbits,
Watched their delicate habits,
—Waited, by the briar-bush,
That flutter of wooing.
Why did he break that small wing?The sun looks hollowly:Mocking’s where the water goes;The breeze bitter in his nose:Mocking eyes wide burning—Lost, lost is he!
Why did he break that small wing?
The sun looks hollowly:
Mocking’s where the water goes;
The breeze bitter in his nose:
Mocking eyes wide burning
—Lost, lost is he!
Cold shone the moon, with noiseThe night went by.Trees uttered things of woe:Bent grass dared not grow:Ah desperate man with haggard eyesAnd hands that fence away the skiesOn rock and briar stumbling,Is it fear of the storm’s rumbling,Of the hissing cold rain,Or lightning’s tragic painDrives you so madly?See, see the patient moon;How she her course keepsThrough cloudy shallows and across black deeps,Now gone, now shines soon:Where’s cause for fear?‘I shudder and shudderAt her bright light:I fear, I fear,That she her fixt course followsSo still and whiteThrough deeps and shallowsWith never a tremor:Naught shall disturb her.I fear, I fearWhat they may beThat secretly bind her:What hand holds the reinsOf those sightless forcesThat govern her courses.Is it SetebosWho deals in her command?Or that unseen Night-ComerWith tender curst hand?—I shudder, and shudder.’Poor storm-wisp, wander!Wind shall not hurt thee,Rain not appal thee,Lightning not blast thee;Thou art worn so frailOnly the moonlight paleTo an ash shall burn thee,To an invisible Pain.
Cold shone the moon, with noiseThe night went by.Trees uttered things of woe:Bent grass dared not grow:
Cold shone the moon, with noise
The night went by.
Trees uttered things of woe:
Bent grass dared not grow:
Ah desperate man with haggard eyesAnd hands that fence away the skiesOn rock and briar stumbling,Is it fear of the storm’s rumbling,Of the hissing cold rain,Or lightning’s tragic painDrives you so madly?See, see the patient moon;How she her course keepsThrough cloudy shallows and across black deeps,Now gone, now shines soon:Where’s cause for fear?
Ah desperate man with haggard eyes
And hands that fence away the skies
On rock and briar stumbling,
Is it fear of the storm’s rumbling,
Of the hissing cold rain,
Or lightning’s tragic pain
Drives you so madly?
See, see the patient moon;
How she her course keeps
Through cloudy shallows and across black deeps,
Now gone, now shines soon:
Where’s cause for fear?
‘I shudder and shudderAt her bright light:I fear, I fear,That she her fixt course followsSo still and whiteThrough deeps and shallowsWith never a tremor:Naught shall disturb her.I fear, I fearWhat they may beThat secretly bind her:What hand holds the reinsOf those sightless forcesThat govern her courses.Is it SetebosWho deals in her command?Or that unseen Night-ComerWith tender curst hand?—I shudder, and shudder.’
‘I shudder and shudder
At her bright light:
I fear, I fear,
That she her fixt course follows
So still and white
Through deeps and shallows
With never a tremor:
Naught shall disturb her.
I fear, I fear
What they may be
That secretly bind her:
What hand holds the reins
Of those sightless forces
That govern her courses.
Is it Setebos
Who deals in her command?
Or that unseen Night-Comer
With tender curst hand?
—I shudder, and shudder.’
Poor storm-wisp, wander!Wind shall not hurt thee,Rain not appal thee,Lightning not blast thee;Thou art worn so frailOnly the moonlight paleTo an ash shall burn thee,To an invisible Pain.
Poor storm-wisp, wander!
Wind shall not hurt thee,
Rain not appal thee,
Lightning not blast thee;
Thou art worn so frail
Only the moonlight pale
To an ash shall burn thee,
To an invisible Pain.
How can I tell it?I saw a thingThat I did not find strangeIn my visioning.A flawless tall mirror,Glass dim and green;And a tall, dim figureThere was between:Pale, so pale her faceAs veils of thin water;And her eyes water-pale,And the moonlight on her;And she was dying, dying;She combed her long hair,And the crimson blood ranIn the fine gold there.She was dying, dying ...And in her perfect eyeNo terror lurked; nor pityThat she should so die.
How can I tell it?I saw a thingThat I did not find strangeIn my visioning.
How can I tell it?
I saw a thing
That I did not find strange
In my visioning.
A flawless tall mirror,Glass dim and green;And a tall, dim figureThere was between:
A flawless tall mirror,
Glass dim and green;
And a tall, dim figure
There was between:
Pale, so pale her faceAs veils of thin water;And her eyes water-pale,And the moonlight on her;
Pale, so pale her face
As veils of thin water;
And her eyes water-pale,
And the moonlight on her;
And she was dying, dying;She combed her long hair,And the crimson blood ranIn the fine gold there.
And she was dying, dying;
She combed her long hair,
And the crimson blood ran
In the fine gold there.
She was dying, dying ...And in her perfect eyeNo terror lurked; nor pityThat she should so die.
She was dying, dying ...
And in her perfect eye
No terror lurked; nor pity
That she should so die.
You who listen, pityGaza, this poor city;For now the roof rocks,And the blind god’s handsGrope at the pillars where he stands:While Gaza mocks,While Gaza mocks.
You who listen, pityGaza, this poor city;For now the roof rocks,And the blind god’s handsGrope at the pillars where he stands:While Gaza mocks,While Gaza mocks.
You who listen, pity
Gaza, this poor city;
For now the roof rocks,
And the blind god’s hands
Grope at the pillars where he stands:
While Gaza mocks,
While Gaza mocks.
Dim the light in your faces: be passionless in the room.Snuffed are the tapers, and bitterly hang on the flowerless air:See: and this is the Image of her they will lay in the tomb,Clear, and waxen, and cooled in the mass of her hair.Quiet the tears in your voices: feel lightly, finger, for fingerIn love: then see how like is the Image, but lifelessly fashionedAnd sightless, calm, unloving ... Oh who is the Artist? Oh lingerAnd ponder whither has flitted his Sitter Impassioned.
Dim the light in your faces: be passionless in the room.Snuffed are the tapers, and bitterly hang on the flowerless air:See: and this is the Image of her they will lay in the tomb,Clear, and waxen, and cooled in the mass of her hair.
Dim the light in your faces: be passionless in the room.
Snuffed are the tapers, and bitterly hang on the flowerless air:
See: and this is the Image of her they will lay in the tomb,
Clear, and waxen, and cooled in the mass of her hair.
Quiet the tears in your voices: feel lightly, finger, for fingerIn love: then see how like is the Image, but lifelessly fashionedAnd sightless, calm, unloving ... Oh who is the Artist? Oh lingerAnd ponder whither has flitted his Sitter Impassioned.
Quiet the tears in your voices: feel lightly, finger, for finger
In love: then see how like is the Image, but lifelessly fashioned
And sightless, calm, unloving ... Oh who is the Artist? Oh linger
And ponder whither has flitted his Sitter Impassioned.
If I were stone dead and buried under,Is there a part of me would still wander,Shiver, mourn, and cry Alack,With no body to its back?When brain grew mealy, turned to dust,Would lissom Mind, too, suffer rust?Immortal Soul grow imbecile,Having no brain to think and feel?—Or grant it be as priests say,And growth come on my death-day:Suppose Growth came: would Certainty?Or would Mind still a quester be,Frame deeper mysteries, not find them out,And wander in a larger Doubt?—Alas, if to Mind’s petty stirDeath prove so poor a silencer:Though veins when emptied a few hoursOf this hot blood, might suckle flowers:From spiritual flames that scorch meNever, never were I free!Then back, Death! Till I call theeHast come too soon!...Thou silly worm, gnaw notYet thine intricate cocoon.
If I were stone dead and buried under,Is there a part of me would still wander,Shiver, mourn, and cry Alack,With no body to its back?
If I were stone dead and buried under,
Is there a part of me would still wander,
Shiver, mourn, and cry Alack,
With no body to its back?
When brain grew mealy, turned to dust,Would lissom Mind, too, suffer rust?Immortal Soul grow imbecile,Having no brain to think and feel?
When brain grew mealy, turned to dust,
Would lissom Mind, too, suffer rust?
Immortal Soul grow imbecile,
Having no brain to think and feel?
—Or grant it be as priests say,And growth come on my death-day:Suppose Growth came: would Certainty?Or would Mind still a quester be,
—Or grant it be as priests say,
And growth come on my death-day:
Suppose Growth came: would Certainty?
Or would Mind still a quester be,
Frame deeper mysteries, not find them out,And wander in a larger Doubt?—Alas, if to Mind’s petty stirDeath prove so poor a silencer:
Frame deeper mysteries, not find them out,
And wander in a larger Doubt?
—Alas, if to Mind’s petty stir
Death prove so poor a silencer:
Though veins when emptied a few hoursOf this hot blood, might suckle flowers:From spiritual flames that scorch meNever, never were I free!
Though veins when emptied a few hours
Of this hot blood, might suckle flowers:
From spiritual flames that scorch me
Never, never were I free!
Then back, Death! Till I call theeHast come too soon!...Thou silly worm, gnaw notYet thine intricate cocoon.
Then back, Death! Till I call thee
Hast come too soon!
...Thou silly worm, gnaw not
Yet thine intricate cocoon.
Critic, that hoary Gull, in airWhistles, whistles shrilly:Climbing Youth, bewareMurder and mockery!That wheeling, hoary gullBats on his thin skull,Claws at his steady eyes,Whinnies and cries:Youth flings the gibe back.Hundreds of wings clack,Bright eyes encircle, searchFor foothold’s fatal lurch.‘See now he shifts his grip:Loosen each finger-tip!Whew, brothers, shall he slip?’Crack-tendoned, answers Youth‘I seek for Eggs of Truth.’Claws clutch his hair,Beaks prick his eyes—‘Whistle,Despair,Despair!With ancient quills priseEvery hand’s—foot’s—hold,Wedged in the rock’s fold!Batter and scream, bewilderThis impious babel-buil ...whew!Down he is rocketing falling twisting.’For days and nightsTime’s curly breakersWinnow him, wash him ...What is that stirs?What wing from the heightsSlants to that murdered limb?Gull’s peering eye bath spottedSomething the sea has rotted.Secretly to the feastDives big gull, less, and least;For Age never dies:Age shall pick out his eyes,Taste them with critick zest,—Age knows the Best!—Age shall build his lairOut of his hair:Gulp his small splintered bonesTo his gizzard, for stones:Feed on his wordsAll his young woolly birds.Say not he died in vain!All that he cried in painEar-cocked Age hearkens toSomeday. Declares it trueSomeday.What though he fell? The jestFeathers old Critic’s nest.
Critic, that hoary Gull, in airWhistles, whistles shrilly:Climbing Youth, bewareMurder and mockery!
Critic, that hoary Gull, in air
Whistles, whistles shrilly:
Climbing Youth, beware
Murder and mockery!
That wheeling, hoary gullBats on his thin skull,Claws at his steady eyes,Whinnies and cries:Youth flings the gibe back.Hundreds of wings clack,Bright eyes encircle, searchFor foothold’s fatal lurch.‘See now he shifts his grip:Loosen each finger-tip!Whew, brothers, shall he slip?’Crack-tendoned, answers Youth‘I seek for Eggs of Truth.’
That wheeling, hoary gull
Bats on his thin skull,
Claws at his steady eyes,
Whinnies and cries:
Youth flings the gibe back.
Hundreds of wings clack,
Bright eyes encircle, search
For foothold’s fatal lurch.
‘See now he shifts his grip:
Loosen each finger-tip!
Whew, brothers, shall he slip?’
Crack-tendoned, answers Youth
‘I seek for Eggs of Truth.’
Claws clutch his hair,Beaks prick his eyes—‘Whistle,Despair,Despair!With ancient quills priseEvery hand’s—foot’s—hold,Wedged in the rock’s fold!Batter and scream, bewilderThis impious babel-buil ...whew!Down he is rocketing falling twisting.’
Claws clutch his hair,
Beaks prick his eyes—
‘Whistle,Despair,Despair!
With ancient quills prise
Every hand’s—foot’s—hold,
Wedged in the rock’s fold!
Batter and scream, bewilder
This impious babel-buil ...
whew!
Down he is rocketing falling twisting.’
For days and nightsTime’s curly breakersWinnow him, wash him ...What is that stirs?What wing from the heightsSlants to that murdered limb?
For days and nights
Time’s curly breakers
Winnow him, wash him ...
What is that stirs?
What wing from the heights
Slants to that murdered limb?
Gull’s peering eye bath spottedSomething the sea has rotted.Secretly to the feastDives big gull, less, and least;For Age never dies:Age shall pick out his eyes,Taste them with critick zest,—Age knows the Best!—Age shall build his lairOut of his hair:Gulp his small splintered bonesTo his gizzard, for stones:Feed on his wordsAll his young woolly birds.
Gull’s peering eye bath spotted
Something the sea has rotted.
Secretly to the feast
Dives big gull, less, and least;
For Age never dies:
Age shall pick out his eyes,
Taste them with critick zest,
—Age knows the Best!
—Age shall build his lair
Out of his hair:
Gulp his small splintered bones
To his gizzard, for stones:
Feed on his words
All his young woolly birds.
Say not he died in vain!All that he cried in painEar-cocked Age hearkens toSomeday. Declares it trueSomeday.
Say not he died in vain!
All that he cried in pain
Ear-cocked Age hearkens to
Someday. Declares it true
Someday.
What though he fell? The jestFeathers old Critic’s nest.
What though he fell? The jest
Feathers old Critic’s nest.
By arrangement with the author, and with the gracious permission of his publishers,The Golden Cockerel Press, Waltham Saint Lawrence, Berkshire, England, this edition ofGipsy-Night and Other Poemsbecomes the third publication issued byThe Private Press of Will Ransom: Maker of Books, 14 West Washington Street, Chicago, U. S. A.
Composition and presswork byWill Ransom, assisted byEdmond A. Hunt; binding byAnthony Faifer. Printing finishedSeptember 30th, 1922.
Transcriber’s NotesObvious printer errors were silently corrected.Archaic and variable spelling was preserved.
Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious printer errors were silently corrected.
Archaic and variable spelling was preserved.