RICHARD HUGHESTHE SINGING FURIESThe yellowsky grows vivid as the sun,The sea glittering, and the hills dun.The stones quiver. Twenty pounds of leadFold upon fold, the air laps my head.Both eyes scorch: tongue stiff and bitter.Flies buzz, but no birds twitter:Slow bullocks stand with stinging feet,And naked fishes scarcely stir, for heat.White as smoke,As jetted steam, dead clouds awokeAnd quivered on the Western rim.And then the singing started, dimAnd sibilant as rime-stiff reedsThat whistle as the wind leads.The North answered, low and clear;The South whispered hard and sere,And thunder muffled up like drumsBeat, whence the East-wind comes.The heavy sky that could not weepIs loosened: rain falls steep,And thirty singing furies rideTo split the sky from side to side.They sing, and lash the wet-flanked wind:Sing, from Col to Hafod MyndAnd fling their voices half a scoreOf miles along the mounded shore:Whip loud music from a tree,And roll their paean out to seaWhere crowded breakers fling and leap,And strange things throb five fathoms deep.The sudden tempest roared and died:The singing furies muted rideDown wet and slippery roads to hell;And, silent in their captors’ trainTwo fishers, storm-caught on the main;A shepherd, battered with his flocks;A pit-boy tumbled from the rocks,A dozen back-broke gulls, and hostsOf shadowy, small, pathetic ghosts,Of mice and leverets caught by flood,Their beauty shrouded in cold mud.THE SERMON(Wales1920).Likegrippt 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?TRAMPWhena brass sun staggers above the sky,When feet cleave to boots, and the tongue’s dry,And sharp dust goads the rolling eye,Come thoughts of wine, and dancing thoughts of girls:They shiver their white arms, and the head whirls,And noon light is hid in their dark curls:Noon feet stumble, and head swims.Out shines the sun, and the thought dims,And death, for blood, runs in the weak limbs.To fall on flints in the shade of tall nettlesGives easy sleep as a bed of rose petals,And dust drifting from the highwayAs light a coverlet as down may.The myriad feet of many-sized fliesMay not open those tired eyes.The first wind of nightTwitches the coverlet away quite:The first wind and large first rainFlickers the dry pulse to life again:Flickers the lids burning on the eyesWith sudden flashes of the slipping skies.Hunger, oldest visionary,Hides a devil in a tree,Hints a glory in the clouds,Fills the crooked air with crowdsOf ivory sightless demons singing—Eyes start: straightens back:Limbs stagger and crack:But Brain flies, Brain soarsUp, where the Sky roarsUpon the back of cherubim:Brain rockets up to Him.Body gives another twistTo the slack waist-band;In agony clenches fistTill the nails bite the hand.Body floats light as air,With rain in its sparse hair:Brain returns, and would tellThe things he has seen well:Body will not stir his lips:Brain and Body come to grips.Deadly each hates the otherAs treacherous blood-brother:No sight, no sound showsHow the struggle goes.They sink at last faint in the wet gutter;So many words to sing that the tongue cannot utter.GRATITUDEEternalgratitude—a long, thin word:When meant, oftenest left unheard:When light on the tongue, light in the purse too:Of curious metallurgy: when coined trueIt glitters not, is neither large nor small:More worth than rubies—less, times, than a ball.Not gift, nor willed: yet through its wide rangeBuys what it buys exact, and leaves no change.Old Gurney had it, won on a hot dayWith ale, from glib-voiced Gypsy by the way.He held it lightly: for ’twas a rum startTo find a hedgeling who had still a heart:So put it down for twist of a beggar’s tongue...Hehad not felt the heat: how the dust stungA face June-roasted:hesaw not the lookAslant the gift-mug; how the hand shook...Yet the words rang his head, and he grew merryAnd whistled from the Boar to Wrye-brook ferry,And chaffed with Ferryman when the hawser creaktOr slipping bilge showed where the planks leakt:Lent hand himself, till doubly hard the bargeButted its nose in mud of the farther marge.When Gurney leapt to shore, he found—dismay!He had no tuppence—(Tuppence was to payTo sulky Ferryman)—‘Naught have I,’ says he,‘Naught, but the gratitude of Tammas LeeGiven one hour.’—Sulky Charon grinned:‘Done,’ said he. ‘Done: I take—all of it, mind.’‘Done,’ cries Jan Gurney. Down the road he went,But by the ford left all his merriment.This is the tale of midday chaffering:How Charon took, and Gurney lost the thing:How Ferryman gave it for his youngest daughterTo a tall lad who saved her out of water—(Being old and mean, had none of his own to give,So passed on Tammas’; glad to see her live):And how young Farmer paid his quarter’s rentWith that one coin, when all else was spent,And how Squire kept it for some goldless debt...For aught I know, it wanders current yet.Yet Tammas was no angel in disguise:He stole Squire’s chickens—often: he told lies,Robbed Charon’s garden, burnt young Farmer’s ricksAnd played the village many lowsy tricks.No children sniffled, and no dog criedWhen full of oaths and smells, he died.JUDYSandhot to haunches:Sun beating eyes down,Yet they peer under lashesAt the hill’s crown:See how the hill slantsUp the sky halfway: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 shadowLike Judy that black horse.Birds clatter numberless,And the breeze tellsThat beanflower somewhereHas ousted the bluebells.Birds clatter numberless:In the muffled woodBig feet move slowly:Mean no good.THE RUINGoneare the coloured princes, gone echo, gone laughter:Drips the blank roof: and the moss creeps after.Dead is the crumbled chimney: all mellowed to rottingThe wall-tints, and the floor-tints, from the spottingOf the rain, from the wind and slow appetiteOf patient mould: and of the worms that biteAt beauty all their innumerable lives.But the sudden nip of knives,The lady aching for her stiffening lord,The passionate-fearful bride,And beaded Pallor clamped to the torment-board,—Leave they no ghosts, no memories by the stairs?No sheeted glimmer treading floorless ways?No haunting melody of lovers’ airs,Nor stealthy chill upon the noon of days?No: for the dead and senseless walls have long forgottenWhat passionate hearts beneath the turf lie rotten.Only from roofs and chimneys pleasantly slidingTumbles the rain in the early hours,Patters its thousand feet on the flowers,Cools its small grey feet in the grasses.
RICHARD HUGHES
The yellowsky grows vivid as the sun,The sea glittering, and the hills dun.The stones quiver. Twenty pounds of leadFold upon fold, the air laps my head.Both eyes scorch: tongue stiff and bitter.Flies buzz, but no birds twitter:Slow bullocks stand with stinging feet,And naked fishes scarcely stir, for heat.White as smoke,As jetted steam, dead clouds awokeAnd quivered on the Western rim.And then the singing started, dimAnd sibilant as rime-stiff reedsThat whistle as the wind leads.The North answered, low and clear;The South whispered hard and sere,And thunder muffled up like drumsBeat, whence the East-wind comes.The heavy sky that could not weepIs loosened: rain falls steep,And thirty singing furies rideTo split the sky from side to side.They sing, and lash the wet-flanked wind:Sing, from Col to Hafod MyndAnd fling their voices half a scoreOf miles along the mounded shore:Whip loud music from a tree,And roll their paean out to seaWhere crowded breakers fling and leap,And strange things throb five fathoms deep.The sudden tempest roared and died:The singing furies muted rideDown wet and slippery roads to hell;And, silent in their captors’ trainTwo fishers, storm-caught on the main;A shepherd, battered with his flocks;A pit-boy tumbled from the rocks,A dozen back-broke gulls, and hostsOf shadowy, small, pathetic ghosts,Of mice and leverets caught by flood,Their beauty shrouded in cold mud.
The yellowsky grows vivid as the sun,The sea glittering, and the hills dun.The stones quiver. Twenty pounds of leadFold upon fold, the air laps my head.Both eyes scorch: tongue stiff and bitter.Flies buzz, but no birds twitter:Slow bullocks stand with stinging feet,And naked fishes scarcely stir, for heat.White as smoke,As jetted steam, dead clouds awokeAnd quivered on the Western rim.And then the singing started, dimAnd sibilant as rime-stiff reedsThat whistle as the wind leads.The North answered, low and clear;The South whispered hard and sere,And thunder muffled up like drumsBeat, whence the East-wind comes.The heavy sky that could not weepIs loosened: rain falls steep,And thirty singing furies rideTo split the sky from side to side.They sing, and lash the wet-flanked wind:Sing, from Col to Hafod MyndAnd fling their voices half a scoreOf miles along the mounded shore:Whip loud music from a tree,And roll their paean out to seaWhere crowded breakers fling and leap,And strange things throb five fathoms deep.The sudden tempest roared and died:The singing furies muted rideDown wet and slippery roads to hell;And, silent in their captors’ trainTwo fishers, storm-caught on the main;A shepherd, battered with his flocks;A pit-boy tumbled from the rocks,A dozen back-broke gulls, and hostsOf shadowy, small, pathetic ghosts,Of mice and leverets caught by flood,Their beauty shrouded in cold mud.
The yellowsky grows vivid as the sun,The sea glittering, and the hills dun.
The stones quiver. Twenty pounds of leadFold upon fold, the air laps my head.
Both eyes scorch: tongue stiff and bitter.Flies buzz, but no birds twitter:
Slow bullocks stand with stinging feet,And naked fishes scarcely stir, for heat.
White as smoke,As jetted steam, dead clouds awokeAnd quivered on the Western rim.And then the singing started, dimAnd sibilant as rime-stiff reedsThat whistle as the wind leads.The North answered, low and clear;The South whispered hard and sere,And thunder muffled up like drumsBeat, whence the East-wind comes.The heavy sky that could not weepIs loosened: rain falls steep,And thirty singing furies rideTo split the sky from side to side.They sing, and lash the wet-flanked wind:Sing, from Col to Hafod MyndAnd fling their voices half a scoreOf miles along the mounded shore:Whip loud music from a tree,And roll their paean out to seaWhere crowded breakers fling and leap,And strange things throb five fathoms deep.
The sudden tempest roared and died:The singing furies muted rideDown wet and slippery roads to hell;And, silent in their captors’ trainTwo fishers, storm-caught on the main;A shepherd, battered with his flocks;A pit-boy tumbled from the rocks,A dozen back-broke gulls, and hostsOf shadowy, small, pathetic ghosts,Of mice and leverets caught by flood,Their beauty shrouded in cold mud.
Likegrippt 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?
Likegrippt 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?
Likegrippt 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?
Whena brass sun staggers above the sky,When feet cleave to boots, and the tongue’s dry,And sharp dust goads the rolling eye,Come thoughts of wine, and dancing thoughts of girls:They shiver their white arms, and the head whirls,And noon light is hid in their dark curls:Noon feet stumble, and head swims.Out shines the sun, and the thought dims,And death, for blood, runs in the weak limbs.To fall on flints in the shade of tall nettlesGives easy sleep as a bed of rose petals,And dust drifting from the highwayAs light a coverlet as down may.The myriad feet of many-sized fliesMay not open those tired eyes.The first wind of nightTwitches the coverlet away quite:The first wind and large first rainFlickers the dry pulse to life again:Flickers the lids burning on the eyesWith sudden flashes of the slipping skies.Hunger, oldest visionary,Hides a devil in a tree,Hints a glory in the clouds,Fills the crooked air with crowdsOf ivory sightless demons singing—Eyes start: straightens back:Limbs stagger and crack:But Brain flies, Brain soarsUp, where the Sky roarsUpon the back of cherubim:Brain rockets up to Him.Body gives another twistTo the slack waist-band;In agony clenches fistTill the nails bite the hand.Body floats light as air,With rain in its sparse hair:Brain returns, and would tellThe things he has seen well:Body will not stir his lips:Brain and Body come to grips.Deadly each hates the otherAs treacherous blood-brother:No sight, no sound showsHow the struggle goes.They sink at last faint in the wet gutter;So many words to sing that the tongue cannot utter.
Whena brass sun staggers above the sky,When feet cleave to boots, and the tongue’s dry,And sharp dust goads the rolling eye,Come thoughts of wine, and dancing thoughts of girls:They shiver their white arms, and the head whirls,And noon light is hid in their dark curls:Noon feet stumble, and head swims.Out shines the sun, and the thought dims,And death, for blood, runs in the weak limbs.To fall on flints in the shade of tall nettlesGives easy sleep as a bed of rose petals,And dust drifting from the highwayAs light a coverlet as down may.The myriad feet of many-sized fliesMay not open those tired eyes.The first wind of nightTwitches the coverlet away quite:The first wind and large first rainFlickers the dry pulse to life again:Flickers the lids burning on the eyesWith sudden flashes of the slipping skies.Hunger, oldest visionary,Hides a devil in a tree,Hints a glory in the clouds,Fills the crooked air with crowdsOf ivory sightless demons singing—Eyes start: straightens back:Limbs stagger and crack:But Brain flies, Brain soarsUp, where the Sky roarsUpon the back of cherubim:Brain rockets up to Him.Body gives another twistTo the slack waist-band;In agony clenches fistTill the nails bite the hand.Body floats light as air,With rain in its sparse hair:Brain returns, and would tellThe things he has seen well:Body will not stir his lips:Brain and Body come to grips.Deadly each hates the otherAs treacherous blood-brother:No sight, no sound showsHow the struggle goes.They sink at last faint in the wet gutter;So many words to sing that the tongue cannot utter.
Whena brass sun staggers above the sky,When feet cleave to boots, and the tongue’s dry,And sharp dust goads the rolling eye,Come thoughts of wine, and dancing thoughts of girls:They shiver their white arms, and the head whirls,And noon light is hid in their dark curls:Noon feet stumble, and head swims.Out shines the sun, and the thought dims,And death, for blood, runs in the weak limbs.
To fall on flints in the shade of tall nettlesGives easy sleep as a bed of rose petals,And dust drifting from the highwayAs light a coverlet as down may.The myriad feet of many-sized fliesMay not open those tired eyes.
The first wind of nightTwitches the coverlet away quite:The first wind and large first rainFlickers the dry pulse to life again:Flickers the lids burning on the eyesWith sudden flashes of the slipping skies.Hunger, oldest visionary,Hides a devil in a tree,Hints a glory in the clouds,Fills the crooked air with crowdsOf ivory sightless demons singing—
Eyes start: straightens back:Limbs stagger and crack:But Brain flies, Brain soarsUp, where the Sky roarsUpon the back of cherubim:Brain rockets up to Him.Body gives another twistTo the slack waist-band;In agony clenches fistTill the nails bite the hand.Body floats light as air,With rain in its sparse hair:
Brain returns, and would tellThe things he has seen well:Body will not stir his lips:Brain and Body come to grips.
Deadly each hates the otherAs treacherous blood-brother:No sight, no sound showsHow the struggle goes.
They sink at last faint in the wet gutter;So many words to sing that the tongue cannot utter.
Eternalgratitude—a long, thin word:When meant, oftenest left unheard:When light on the tongue, light in the purse too:Of curious metallurgy: when coined trueIt glitters not, is neither large nor small:More worth than rubies—less, times, than a ball.Not gift, nor willed: yet through its wide rangeBuys what it buys exact, and leaves no change.Old Gurney had it, won on a hot dayWith ale, from glib-voiced Gypsy by the way.He held it lightly: for ’twas a rum startTo find a hedgeling who had still a heart:So put it down for twist of a beggar’s tongue...Hehad not felt the heat: how the dust stungA face June-roasted:hesaw not the lookAslant the gift-mug; how the hand shook...Yet the words rang his head, and he grew merryAnd whistled from the Boar to Wrye-brook ferry,And chaffed with Ferryman when the hawser creaktOr slipping bilge showed where the planks leakt:Lent hand himself, till doubly hard the bargeButted its nose in mud of the farther marge.When Gurney leapt to shore, he found—dismay!He had no tuppence—(Tuppence was to payTo sulky Ferryman)—‘Naught have I,’ says he,‘Naught, but the gratitude of Tammas LeeGiven one hour.’—Sulky Charon grinned:‘Done,’ said he. ‘Done: I take—all of it, mind.’‘Done,’ cries Jan Gurney. Down the road he went,But by the ford left all his merriment.This is the tale of midday chaffering:How Charon took, and Gurney lost the thing:How Ferryman gave it for his youngest daughterTo a tall lad who saved her out of water—(Being old and mean, had none of his own to give,So passed on Tammas’; glad to see her live):And how young Farmer paid his quarter’s rentWith that one coin, when all else was spent,And how Squire kept it for some goldless debt...For aught I know, it wanders current yet.Yet Tammas was no angel in disguise:He stole Squire’s chickens—often: he told lies,Robbed Charon’s garden, burnt young Farmer’s ricksAnd played the village many lowsy tricks.No children sniffled, and no dog criedWhen full of oaths and smells, he died.
Eternalgratitude—a long, thin word:When meant, oftenest left unheard:When light on the tongue, light in the purse too:Of curious metallurgy: when coined trueIt glitters not, is neither large nor small:More worth than rubies—less, times, than a ball.Not gift, nor willed: yet through its wide rangeBuys what it buys exact, and leaves no change.Old Gurney had it, won on a hot dayWith ale, from glib-voiced Gypsy by the way.He held it lightly: for ’twas a rum startTo find a hedgeling who had still a heart:So put it down for twist of a beggar’s tongue...Hehad not felt the heat: how the dust stungA face June-roasted:hesaw not the lookAslant the gift-mug; how the hand shook...Yet the words rang his head, and he grew merryAnd whistled from the Boar to Wrye-brook ferry,And chaffed with Ferryman when the hawser creaktOr slipping bilge showed where the planks leakt:Lent hand himself, till doubly hard the bargeButted its nose in mud of the farther marge.When Gurney leapt to shore, he found—dismay!He had no tuppence—(Tuppence was to payTo sulky Ferryman)—‘Naught have I,’ says he,‘Naught, but the gratitude of Tammas LeeGiven one hour.’—Sulky Charon grinned:‘Done,’ said he. ‘Done: I take—all of it, mind.’‘Done,’ cries Jan Gurney. Down the road he went,But by the ford left all his merriment.This is the tale of midday chaffering:How Charon took, and Gurney lost the thing:How Ferryman gave it for his youngest daughterTo a tall lad who saved her out of water—(Being old and mean, had none of his own to give,So passed on Tammas’; glad to see her live):And how young Farmer paid his quarter’s rentWith that one coin, when all else was spent,And how Squire kept it for some goldless debt...For aught I know, it wanders current yet.Yet Tammas was no angel in disguise:He stole Squire’s chickens—often: he told lies,Robbed Charon’s garden, burnt young Farmer’s ricksAnd played the village many lowsy tricks.No children sniffled, and no dog criedWhen full of oaths and smells, he died.
Eternalgratitude—a long, thin word:When meant, oftenest left unheard:When light on the tongue, light in the purse too:Of curious metallurgy: when coined trueIt glitters not, is neither large nor small:More worth than rubies—less, times, than a ball.Not gift, nor willed: yet through its wide rangeBuys what it buys exact, and leaves no change.
Old Gurney had it, won on a hot dayWith ale, from glib-voiced Gypsy by the way.He held it lightly: for ’twas a rum startTo find a hedgeling who had still a heart:So put it down for twist of a beggar’s tongue...Hehad not felt the heat: how the dust stungA face June-roasted:hesaw not the lookAslant the gift-mug; how the hand shook...Yet the words rang his head, and he grew merryAnd whistled from the Boar to Wrye-brook ferry,And chaffed with Ferryman when the hawser creaktOr slipping bilge showed where the planks leakt:Lent hand himself, till doubly hard the bargeButted its nose in mud of the farther marge.When Gurney leapt to shore, he found—dismay!He had no tuppence—(Tuppence was to payTo sulky Ferryman)—‘Naught have I,’ says he,‘Naught, but the gratitude of Tammas LeeGiven one hour.’—Sulky Charon grinned:‘Done,’ said he. ‘Done: I take—all of it, mind.’‘Done,’ cries Jan Gurney. Down the road he went,But by the ford left all his merriment.
This is the tale of midday chaffering:How Charon took, and Gurney lost the thing:How Ferryman gave it for his youngest daughterTo a tall lad who saved her out of water—(Being old and mean, had none of his own to give,So passed on Tammas’; glad to see her live):And how young Farmer paid his quarter’s rentWith that one coin, when all else was spent,And how Squire kept it for some goldless debt...For aught I know, it wanders current yet.Yet Tammas was no angel in disguise:He stole Squire’s chickens—often: he told lies,Robbed Charon’s garden, burnt young Farmer’s ricksAnd played the village many lowsy tricks.
No children sniffled, and no dog criedWhen full of oaths and smells, he died.
Sandhot to haunches:Sun beating eyes down,Yet they peer under lashesAt the hill’s crown:See how the hill slantsUp the sky halfway: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 shadowLike Judy that black horse.Birds clatter numberless,And the breeze tellsThat beanflower somewhereHas ousted the bluebells.Birds clatter numberless:In the muffled woodBig feet move slowly:Mean no good.
Sandhot to haunches:Sun beating eyes down,Yet they peer under lashesAt the hill’s crown:See how the hill slantsUp the sky halfway: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 shadowLike Judy that black horse.Birds clatter numberless,And the breeze tellsThat beanflower somewhereHas ousted the bluebells.Birds clatter numberless:In the muffled woodBig feet move slowly:Mean no good.
Sandhot to haunches:Sun beating eyes down,Yet they peer under lashesAt the hill’s crown:
See how the hill slantsUp the sky halfway: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 shadowLike Judy that black horse.
Birds clatter numberless,And the breeze tellsThat beanflower somewhereHas ousted the bluebells.
Birds clatter numberless:In the muffled woodBig feet move slowly:Mean no good.
Goneare the coloured princes, gone echo, gone laughter:Drips the blank roof: and the moss creeps after.Dead is the crumbled chimney: all mellowed to rottingThe wall-tints, and the floor-tints, from the spottingOf the rain, from the wind and slow appetiteOf patient mould: and of the worms that biteAt beauty all their innumerable lives.But the sudden nip of knives,The lady aching for her stiffening lord,The passionate-fearful bride,And beaded Pallor clamped to the torment-board,—Leave they no ghosts, no memories by the stairs?No sheeted glimmer treading floorless ways?No haunting melody of lovers’ airs,Nor stealthy chill upon the noon of days?No: for the dead and senseless walls have long forgottenWhat passionate hearts beneath the turf lie rotten.Only from roofs and chimneys pleasantly slidingTumbles the rain in the early hours,Patters its thousand feet on the flowers,Cools its small grey feet in the grasses.
Goneare the coloured princes, gone echo, gone laughter:Drips the blank roof: and the moss creeps after.Dead is the crumbled chimney: all mellowed to rottingThe wall-tints, and the floor-tints, from the spottingOf the rain, from the wind and slow appetiteOf patient mould: and of the worms that biteAt beauty all their innumerable lives.But the sudden nip of knives,The lady aching for her stiffening lord,The passionate-fearful bride,And beaded Pallor clamped to the torment-board,—Leave they no ghosts, no memories by the stairs?No sheeted glimmer treading floorless ways?No haunting melody of lovers’ airs,Nor stealthy chill upon the noon of days?No: for the dead and senseless walls have long forgottenWhat passionate hearts beneath the turf lie rotten.Only from roofs and chimneys pleasantly slidingTumbles the rain in the early hours,Patters its thousand feet on the flowers,Cools its small grey feet in the grasses.
Goneare the coloured princes, gone echo, gone laughter:Drips the blank roof: and the moss creeps after.
Dead is the crumbled chimney: all mellowed to rottingThe wall-tints, and the floor-tints, from the spottingOf the rain, from the wind and slow appetiteOf patient mould: and of the worms that biteAt beauty all their innumerable lives.
But the sudden nip of knives,The lady aching for her stiffening lord,The passionate-fearful bride,And beaded Pallor clamped to the torment-board,—Leave they no ghosts, no memories by the stairs?
No sheeted glimmer treading floorless ways?No haunting melody of lovers’ airs,Nor stealthy chill upon the noon of days?
No: for the dead and senseless walls have long forgottenWhat passionate hearts beneath the turf lie rotten.
Only from roofs and chimneys pleasantly slidingTumbles the rain in the early hours,Patters its thousand feet on the flowers,Cools its small grey feet in the grasses.