The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Pier-Glass

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Pier-GlassThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The Pier-GlassAuthor: Robert GravesRelease date: December 31, 2014 [eBook #47824]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: E-text prepared by MWS and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries (https://archive.org/details/toronto)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PIER-GLASS ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The Pier-GlassAuthor: Robert GravesRelease date: December 31, 2014 [eBook #47824]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: E-text prepared by MWS and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries (https://archive.org/details/toronto)

Title: The Pier-Glass

Author: Robert Graves

Release date: December 31, 2014 [eBook #47824]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by MWS and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries (https://archive.org/details/toronto)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PIER-GLASS ***

The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Pier-Glass, by Robert Graves

The book cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

ROBERT GRAVESROBERT GRAVES(From a Painting by Benjamin Nicholson).

ROBERT GRAVES(From a Painting by Benjamin Nicholson).

ROBERT GRAVES

(From a Painting by Benjamin Nicholson).

THE PIER-GLASSBY ROBERT GRAVESLONDON: MARTIN SECKER

THE PIER-GLASS

BY ROBERT GRAVES

LONDON: MARTIN SECKER

This myrrour I tote in,quasi diaphanumVel quasi speculum, in aenigmate....Speke Parot, John Skelton.

This myrrour I tote in,quasi diaphanum

Vel quasi speculum, in aenigmate....

Speke Parot, John Skelton.

THE LONDON AND NORWICH PRESS, LIMITED, LONDON AND NORWICH, ENGLAND

TONANCY NICHOLSON

Most of the pieces here included have appeared serially inThe London Mercury,The Athenæum,The Spectator,The Nation,The New Statesman,To-day,The Century Magazineand other periodicals, English and American.

Robert Graves.

Boar's Hill,Oxford.

Naseboro' held him guilty,Crowther took his part,Who lies at the cross-roads,A stake through his heart.Spring calls, and the stake answersThrowing out shoots;The towns debate what life is thisSprung from such roots.Naseboro' says "A Upas Tree";"A Rose," says Crowther;But April's here to declare itNeither one nor other.Neither ill nor very fair,Rose nor Upas,But an honest oak-tree,As its parent was.A green-tufted oak-treeOn the green wold,Careless as the dead heartThat the roots enfold.

Naseboro' held him guilty,Crowther took his part,Who lies at the cross-roads,A stake through his heart.

Naseboro' held him guilty,

Crowther took his part,

Who lies at the cross-roads,

A stake through his heart.

Spring calls, and the stake answersThrowing out shoots;The towns debate what life is thisSprung from such roots.

Spring calls, and the stake answers

Throwing out shoots;

The towns debate what life is this

Sprung from such roots.

Naseboro' says "A Upas Tree";"A Rose," says Crowther;But April's here to declare itNeither one nor other.

Naseboro' says "A Upas Tree";

"A Rose," says Crowther;

But April's here to declare it

Neither one nor other.

Neither ill nor very fair,Rose nor Upas,But an honest oak-tree,As its parent was.

Neither ill nor very fair,

Rose nor Upas,

But an honest oak-tree,

As its parent was.

A green-tufted oak-treeOn the green wold,Careless as the dead heartThat the roots enfold.

A green-tufted oak-tree

On the green wold,

Careless as the dead heart

That the roots enfold.

A simple nosegay! was that much to ask?(Winter still gloomed, with scarce a bud yet showing).He loved her ill, if he resigned the task."Somewhere," she cried, "there must be blossom blowing."It seems my lady wept and the troll sworeBy Heaven he hated tears: he'd cure her spleen;Where she had begged one flower, he'd shower fourscore,A haystack bunch to amaze a China Queen.Cold fog-drawn Lily, pale mist-magic RoseHe conjured, and in a glassy cauldron setWith elvish unsubstantial MignonetteAnd such vague bloom as wandering dreams enclose.But she?Awed,Charmed to tears,Distracted,Yet—Even yet, perhaps, a trifle piqued—who knows?

A simple nosegay! was that much to ask?

(Winter still gloomed, with scarce a bud yet showing).

He loved her ill, if he resigned the task.

"Somewhere," she cried, "there must be blossom blowing."

It seems my lady wept and the troll swore

By Heaven he hated tears: he'd cure her spleen;

Where she had begged one flower, he'd shower fourscore,

A haystack bunch to amaze a China Queen.

Cold fog-drawn Lily, pale mist-magic RoseHe conjured, and in a glassy cauldron setWith elvish unsubstantial MignonetteAnd such vague bloom as wandering dreams enclose.But she?Awed,Charmed to tears,Distracted,Yet—Even yet, perhaps, a trifle piqued—who knows?

Cold fog-drawn Lily, pale mist-magic Rose

He conjured, and in a glassy cauldron set

With elvish unsubstantial Mignonette

And such vague bloom as wandering dreams enclose.

But she?

Awed,

Charmed to tears,

Distracted,

Yet—

Even yet, perhaps, a trifle piqued—who knows?

(To T. E. Lawrence, who helped me with it)

Lost manor where I walk continuallyA ghost, while yet in woman's flesh and blood.Up your broad stairs mounting with outspread fingersAnd gliding steadfast down your corridorsI come by nightly custom to this room,And even on sultry afternoons I comeDrawn by a thread of time-sunk memory.Empty, unless for a huge bed of stateShrouded with rusty curtains drooped awry(A puppet theatre where malignant fancyPeoples the wings with fear). At my right handA ravelled bell-pull hangs in readinessTo summon me from attic glooms aboveService of elder ghosts; here at my leftA sullen pier-glass cracked from side to sideScorns to present the face as do new mirrorsWith a lying flush, but shows it melancholyAnd pale, as faces grow that look in mirrors.Is here no life, nothing but the thin shadowAnd blank foreboding, never a wainscote ratRasping a crust? Or at the window paneNo fly, no bluebottle, no starveling spider?The windows frame a prospect of cold skiesHalf-merged with sea, as at the first creation,Abstract, confusing welter. Face about,Peer rather in the glass once more, take noteOf self, the grey lips and long hair dishevelled,Sleep-staring eyes. Ah, mirror, for Christ's loveGive me one token that there still abidesRemote, beyond this island mysterySo be it only this side Hope, somewhere,In streams, on sun-warm mountain pasturage,True life, natural breath; not this phantasma.A rumour, scarcely yet to be reckoned sound,But a pulse quicker or slower, then I knowMy plea is granted; death prevails not yet.For bees have swarmed behind in a close placePent up between this glass and the outer wall.The combs are founded, the queen rules her court,Bee-serjeants posted at the entrance chinkAre sampling each returning honey-cargoWith scrutinizing mouth and commentary,Slow approbation, quick dissatisfaction.Disquieting rhythm, that leads me home at lastFrom labyrinthine wandering. This new moodOf judgment orders me my present duty,To face again a problem strongly solvedIn life gone by, but now again proposedOut of due time for fresh deliberation.Did not my answer please the Master's ear?Yet, I'll stay obstinate. How went the question,A paltry question set on the elementsOf love and the wronged lover's obligation?Kill or forgive?Still does the bed ooze blood?Let it drip down till every floor-plank rot!Yet shall I answer, challenging the judgment:—"Kill, strike the blow again, spite what shall come.""Kill, strike, again, again," the bees in chorus hum.

Lost manor where I walk continually

A ghost, while yet in woman's flesh and blood.

Up your broad stairs mounting with outspread fingers

And gliding steadfast down your corridors

I come by nightly custom to this room,

And even on sultry afternoons I come

Drawn by a thread of time-sunk memory.

Empty, unless for a huge bed of stateShrouded with rusty curtains drooped awry(A puppet theatre where malignant fancyPeoples the wings with fear). At my right handA ravelled bell-pull hangs in readinessTo summon me from attic glooms aboveService of elder ghosts; here at my leftA sullen pier-glass cracked from side to sideScorns to present the face as do new mirrorsWith a lying flush, but shows it melancholyAnd pale, as faces grow that look in mirrors.

Empty, unless for a huge bed of state

Shrouded with rusty curtains drooped awry

(A puppet theatre where malignant fancy

Peoples the wings with fear). At my right hand

A ravelled bell-pull hangs in readiness

To summon me from attic glooms above

Service of elder ghosts; here at my left

A sullen pier-glass cracked from side to side

Scorns to present the face as do new mirrors

With a lying flush, but shows it melancholy

And pale, as faces grow that look in mirrors.

Is here no life, nothing but the thin shadowAnd blank foreboding, never a wainscote ratRasping a crust? Or at the window paneNo fly, no bluebottle, no starveling spider?The windows frame a prospect of cold skiesHalf-merged with sea, as at the first creation,Abstract, confusing welter. Face about,Peer rather in the glass once more, take noteOf self, the grey lips and long hair dishevelled,Sleep-staring eyes. Ah, mirror, for Christ's loveGive me one token that there still abidesRemote, beyond this island mysterySo be it only this side Hope, somewhere,In streams, on sun-warm mountain pasturage,True life, natural breath; not this phantasma.

Is here no life, nothing but the thin shadow

And blank foreboding, never a wainscote rat

Rasping a crust? Or at the window pane

No fly, no bluebottle, no starveling spider?

The windows frame a prospect of cold skies

Half-merged with sea, as at the first creation,

Abstract, confusing welter. Face about,

Peer rather in the glass once more, take note

Of self, the grey lips and long hair dishevelled,

Sleep-staring eyes. Ah, mirror, for Christ's love

Give me one token that there still abides

Remote, beyond this island mystery

So be it only this side Hope, somewhere,

In streams, on sun-warm mountain pasturage,

True life, natural breath; not this phantasma.

A rumour, scarcely yet to be reckoned sound,But a pulse quicker or slower, then I knowMy plea is granted; death prevails not yet.For bees have swarmed behind in a close placePent up between this glass and the outer wall.The combs are founded, the queen rules her court,Bee-serjeants posted at the entrance chinkAre sampling each returning honey-cargoWith scrutinizing mouth and commentary,Slow approbation, quick dissatisfaction.Disquieting rhythm, that leads me home at lastFrom labyrinthine wandering. This new moodOf judgment orders me my present duty,To face again a problem strongly solvedIn life gone by, but now again proposedOut of due time for fresh deliberation.Did not my answer please the Master's ear?Yet, I'll stay obstinate. How went the question,A paltry question set on the elementsOf love and the wronged lover's obligation?Kill or forgive?Still does the bed ooze blood?Let it drip down till every floor-plank rot!Yet shall I answer, challenging the judgment:—"Kill, strike the blow again, spite what shall come.""Kill, strike, again, again," the bees in chorus hum.

A rumour, scarcely yet to be reckoned sound,

But a pulse quicker or slower, then I know

My plea is granted; death prevails not yet.

For bees have swarmed behind in a close place

Pent up between this glass and the outer wall.

The combs are founded, the queen rules her court,

Bee-serjeants posted at the entrance chink

Are sampling each returning honey-cargo

With scrutinizing mouth and commentary,

Slow approbation, quick dissatisfaction.

Disquieting rhythm, that leads me home at last

From labyrinthine wandering. This new mood

Of judgment orders me my present duty,

To face again a problem strongly solved

In life gone by, but now again proposed

Out of due time for fresh deliberation.

Did not my answer please the Master's ear?

Yet, I'll stay obstinate. How went the question,

A paltry question set on the elements

Of love and the wronged lover's obligation?

Kill or forgive?Still does the bed ooze blood?

Let it drip down till every floor-plank rot!

Yet shall I answer, challenging the judgment:—

"Kill, strike the blow again, spite what shall come."

"Kill, strike, again, again," the bees in chorus hum.

Before this generous timeOf Love in morning prime,He had long season stoodBound in a nightmare moodOf dense murk, rarely litBy Jack-o'-Lanthorn's flitAnd straightway smothered sparkOf beasts' eyes in the dark,Mourning with sense adrift,Tears rolling swift.With o, for Sun to blazeDrying the cobweb-mazeDew-sagged upon the corn,With o, for flowering thorn,For fly and butterfly,For pigeons in the sky,For robin and thrush,For the long bulrush,For cherry under the leaf,For an end to grief,For joy in steadfastness.Then through his distressAnd clouded vision cameAn unknown gradual flameBy silent hands controlled,Pale at first and cold,Like wizard's lily-bloomConjured from the gloom,Like torch of glow-worm seenThrough grasses shining greenBy children half in fright,Or Christmas candlelightFlung on the outer snow,Or tinsel stars that showTheir evening gloryWith sheen of fairy story.No more, no more,Forget that went before!Not a wrack remainsOf all his former pains.Here's Love a drench of light,A Sun dazzling the sight,Well started on his raceTowards the Zenith spaceWhere fixed and sureHe shall endure,Holding peace secure.Now with his blazeHe dries the cobweb mazeDew-sagging on the corn,He brings the flowering thorn,The fly and butterfly,And pigeons in the sky,The robin and the thrush,And the long bulrush,And cherry under the leaf,Earth in a silken dress,With end to grief,With love in steadfastness.

Before this generous time

Of Love in morning prime,

He had long season stood

Bound in a nightmare mood

Of dense murk, rarely lit

By Jack-o'-Lanthorn's flit

And straightway smothered spark

Of beasts' eyes in the dark,

Mourning with sense adrift,

Tears rolling swift.

With o, for Sun to blaze

Drying the cobweb-maze

Dew-sagged upon the corn,

With o, for flowering thorn,

For fly and butterfly,

For pigeons in the sky,

For robin and thrush,

For the long bulrush,

For cherry under the leaf,

For an end to grief,

For joy in steadfastness.

Then through his distress

And clouded vision came

An unknown gradual flame

By silent hands controlled,

Pale at first and cold,

Like wizard's lily-bloom

Conjured from the gloom,

Like torch of glow-worm seen

Through grasses shining green

By children half in fright,

Or Christmas candlelight

Flung on the outer snow,

Or tinsel stars that show

Their evening glory

With sheen of fairy story.

No more, no more,Forget that went before!Not a wrack remainsOf all his former pains.Here's Love a drench of light,A Sun dazzling the sight,Well started on his raceTowards the Zenith spaceWhere fixed and sureHe shall endure,Holding peace secure.

No more, no more,

Forget that went before!

Not a wrack remains

Of all his former pains.

Here's Love a drench of light,

A Sun dazzling the sight,

Well started on his race

Towards the Zenith space

Where fixed and sure

He shall endure,

Holding peace secure.

Now with his blazeHe dries the cobweb mazeDew-sagging on the corn,He brings the flowering thorn,The fly and butterfly,And pigeons in the sky,The robin and the thrush,And the long bulrush,And cherry under the leaf,Earth in a silken dress,With end to grief,With love in steadfastness.

Now with his blaze

He dries the cobweb maze

Dew-sagging on the corn,

He brings the flowering thorn,

The fly and butterfly,

And pigeons in the sky,

The robin and the thrush,

And the long bulrush,

And cherry under the leaf,

Earth in a silken dress,

With end to grief,

With love in steadfastness.

Your grieving moonlight face looks downThrough the forest of my fears,Crowned with a spiny bramble-crown,Dew-dropped with evening tears.Why do you spell "untrue, unkind,"Reproachful eyes plaguing my sleep?I am not guilty in my mindOf aught would make you weep.Untrue? but how, what broken oath?Unkind? I know not even your name.Unkind, untrue, you charge me both,Scalding my heart with shame.The black trees shudder, dropping snow,The stars tumble and spin.Speak, speak, or how may a child knowHis ancestral sin?

Your grieving moonlight face looks downThrough the forest of my fears,Crowned with a spiny bramble-crown,Dew-dropped with evening tears.

Your grieving moonlight face looks down

Through the forest of my fears,

Crowned with a spiny bramble-crown,

Dew-dropped with evening tears.

Why do you spell "untrue, unkind,"Reproachful eyes plaguing my sleep?I am not guilty in my mindOf aught would make you weep.

Why do you spell "untrue, unkind,"

Reproachful eyes plaguing my sleep?

I am not guilty in my mind

Of aught would make you weep.

Untrue? but how, what broken oath?Unkind? I know not even your name.Unkind, untrue, you charge me both,Scalding my heart with shame.

Untrue? but how, what broken oath?

Unkind? I know not even your name.

Unkind, untrue, you charge me both,

Scalding my heart with shame.

The black trees shudder, dropping snow,The stars tumble and spin.Speak, speak, or how may a child knowHis ancestral sin?

The black trees shudder, dropping snow,

The stars tumble and spin.

Speak, speak, or how may a child know

His ancestral sin?

Glinting on the roadwayA broken mirror lay:Then what did the child sayWho found it there?He cried there was a goblinLooking out as he looked in—Wild eyes and speckled skin,Black, bristling hair!He brought it to his fatherWho being a simple sailorSwore, "This is a true wonder,Deny it who can!Plain enough to me, for one,It's a portrait aptly doneOf Admiral, the great Lord NelsonWhen a young man."The sailor's wife perceivingHer husband had some pretty thingAt which he was peering,Seized it from his hand.Then tears started and ran free,"Jack, you have deceived me,I love you no more," said she,"So understand!""But, Mary," says the sailor,"This is a famous treasure,Admiral Nelson's pictureTaken in youth.""Viper and fox," she cries,"To trick me with such lies,Who is this wench with the bold eyes?Tell the full truth!"Up rides the parish priestMounted on a fat beast.Grief and anger have not ceasedBetween those two;Little Tom still weeps for fear;He has seen Hobgoblin, near,Great white teeth and foul leerThat pierced him through.Now the old priest lifts his gloveBidding all for God's loveTo stand and not to move,Lest blood be shed."O, O!" cries the urchin,"I saw the devil grin,He glared out, as I looked in;A true death's head!"Mary weeps, "Ah, Father,My Jack loves another!On some voyage he courted herIn a land afar."This, with cursing, Jack denies:—"Father, use your own eyes:It is Lord Nelson in disguiseAs a young tar."When the priest took the glass,Fresh marvels came to pass"A saint of glory, by the Mass!"Where got you this?"He signed him with the good Sign,Be sure the relic was divine,He would fix it in a shrineFor pilgrims to kiss.There the chapel folk who come(Honest, some, and lewd, some),See the saint's eyes and are dumb,Kneeling on the flags.Some see the Doubter Thomas,And some Nathaniel in the glass,And others whom but old Saint JudasWith his money bags?

Glinting on the roadwayA broken mirror lay:Then what did the child sayWho found it there?He cried there was a goblinLooking out as he looked in—Wild eyes and speckled skin,Black, bristling hair!

Glinting on the roadway

A broken mirror lay:

Then what did the child say

Who found it there?

He cried there was a goblin

Looking out as he looked in—

Wild eyes and speckled skin,

Black, bristling hair!

He brought it to his fatherWho being a simple sailorSwore, "This is a true wonder,Deny it who can!Plain enough to me, for one,It's a portrait aptly doneOf Admiral, the great Lord NelsonWhen a young man."

He brought it to his father

Who being a simple sailor

Swore, "This is a true wonder,

Deny it who can!

Plain enough to me, for one,

It's a portrait aptly done

Of Admiral, the great Lord Nelson

When a young man."

The sailor's wife perceivingHer husband had some pretty thingAt which he was peering,Seized it from his hand.Then tears started and ran free,"Jack, you have deceived me,I love you no more," said she,"So understand!"

The sailor's wife perceiving

Her husband had some pretty thing

At which he was peering,

Seized it from his hand.

Then tears started and ran free,

"Jack, you have deceived me,

I love you no more," said she,

"So understand!"

"But, Mary," says the sailor,"This is a famous treasure,Admiral Nelson's pictureTaken in youth.""Viper and fox," she cries,"To trick me with such lies,Who is this wench with the bold eyes?Tell the full truth!"

"But, Mary," says the sailor,

"This is a famous treasure,

Admiral Nelson's picture

Taken in youth."

"Viper and fox," she cries,

"To trick me with such lies,

Who is this wench with the bold eyes?

Tell the full truth!"

Up rides the parish priestMounted on a fat beast.Grief and anger have not ceasedBetween those two;Little Tom still weeps for fear;He has seen Hobgoblin, near,Great white teeth and foul leerThat pierced him through.

Up rides the parish priest

Mounted on a fat beast.

Grief and anger have not ceased

Between those two;

Little Tom still weeps for fear;

He has seen Hobgoblin, near,

Great white teeth and foul leer

That pierced him through.

Now the old priest lifts his gloveBidding all for God's loveTo stand and not to move,Lest blood be shed."O, O!" cries the urchin,"I saw the devil grin,He glared out, as I looked in;A true death's head!"

Now the old priest lifts his glove

Bidding all for God's love

To stand and not to move,

Lest blood be shed.

"O, O!" cries the urchin,

"I saw the devil grin,

He glared out, as I looked in;

A true death's head!"

Mary weeps, "Ah, Father,My Jack loves another!On some voyage he courted herIn a land afar."This, with cursing, Jack denies:—"Father, use your own eyes:It is Lord Nelson in disguiseAs a young tar."

Mary weeps, "Ah, Father,

My Jack loves another!

On some voyage he courted her

In a land afar."

This, with cursing, Jack denies:—

"Father, use your own eyes:

It is Lord Nelson in disguise

As a young tar."

When the priest took the glass,Fresh marvels came to pass"A saint of glory, by the Mass!"Where got you this?"He signed him with the good Sign,Be sure the relic was divine,He would fix it in a shrineFor pilgrims to kiss.

When the priest took the glass,

Fresh marvels came to pass

"A saint of glory, by the Mass!

"Where got you this?"

He signed him with the good Sign,

Be sure the relic was divine,

He would fix it in a shrine

For pilgrims to kiss.

There the chapel folk who come(Honest, some, and lewd, some),See the saint's eyes and are dumb,Kneeling on the flags.Some see the Doubter Thomas,And some Nathaniel in the glass,And others whom but old Saint JudasWith his money bags?

There the chapel folk who come

(Honest, some, and lewd, some),

See the saint's eyes and are dumb,

Kneeling on the flags.

Some see the Doubter Thomas,

And some Nathaniel in the glass,

And others whom but old Saint Judas

With his money bags?

Seth and the sons of Seth who followed himHalted in silence: labour, then, was vain.Fast at the zenith, blazoned in his splendour,Hung the fierce Sun, wherefore these travelling folkStood centred each in his own disc of shade.The term proposed was ended; now to enjoyThe moment's melancholy; their tears fell shining.Yesterday early at the dreadful hour,When life ebbs lowest, when the strand of beingIs slowly bared until discovered showWeed-mantelled hulks that foundered years agoAt autumn anchorage, then father AdamSummoned in haste his elder generationsTo his death-tent, and gasping spoke to them,Forthwith defining an immediate journeyBeyond the eastern ridge, in quest for oneWhom he named Cain, brother to Seth, true uncleTo these young spearmen; they should lead him hereFor a last benediction at his hands.First-born yet outlawed! Scarcely they believedIn this strange word of "Cain," in this new man,Man, yet outside the tents; but Adam sworeAnd gave them a fair sign of recognition.There was a brand, he said, a firm red pillarParting Cain's brows, and Cain had mighty hands,Sprouting luxurious hair, red, like his beard.Moreover Adam said that by huge strengthHimself could stay this ebb of early morning,Yet three days longer, three days, though no more—This for the stern desire and long disquietudeThat was his love for Cain; whom God had cursed.Then would he kiss all fatherly and so die—Kneeling, with eyes abased, they made him promise,Swore, at the midpoint of their second day,If unsped in the search of whom he named,They would come hasting home to Adam's tent.They touched his bony fingers; forth they went.Now Seth, shielding his eyes, sees mistilyBreaking the horizon thirty miles away(A full day's journey) what but a wisp, a feather,A thin line, half a nothing—distant smoke!Blown smoke, a signal from that utmost ridgeOf desolation—the camp fire of Cain.He to restrain his twelve impetuous sons(He knows the razor-edge of their young spirit)Dissembles seeing, turns his steps about,Bids them come follow, but they little heeding,Scarce noting his commands, fasten their eyesOn smoke, so forfeit Adam's benediction,Striding forward into the wildernessWith eager thighs, forgetful of their oath,Adventurous for this monster, a new man,Their own kin—how accursed?—they haste forwonder.

Seth and the sons of Seth who followed him

Halted in silence: labour, then, was vain.

Fast at the zenith, blazoned in his splendour,

Hung the fierce Sun, wherefore these travelling folk

Stood centred each in his own disc of shade.

The term proposed was ended; now to enjoy

The moment's melancholy; their tears fell shining.

Yesterday early at the dreadful hour,When life ebbs lowest, when the strand of beingIs slowly bared until discovered showWeed-mantelled hulks that foundered years agoAt autumn anchorage, then father AdamSummoned in haste his elder generationsTo his death-tent, and gasping spoke to them,Forthwith defining an immediate journeyBeyond the eastern ridge, in quest for oneWhom he named Cain, brother to Seth, true uncleTo these young spearmen; they should lead him hereFor a last benediction at his hands.

Yesterday early at the dreadful hour,

When life ebbs lowest, when the strand of being

Is slowly bared until discovered show

Weed-mantelled hulks that foundered years ago

At autumn anchorage, then father Adam

Summoned in haste his elder generations

To his death-tent, and gasping spoke to them,

Forthwith defining an immediate journey

Beyond the eastern ridge, in quest for one

Whom he named Cain, brother to Seth, true uncle

To these young spearmen; they should lead him here

For a last benediction at his hands.

First-born yet outlawed! Scarcely they believedIn this strange word of "Cain," in this new man,Man, yet outside the tents; but Adam sworeAnd gave them a fair sign of recognition.There was a brand, he said, a firm red pillarParting Cain's brows, and Cain had mighty hands,Sprouting luxurious hair, red, like his beard.Moreover Adam said that by huge strengthHimself could stay this ebb of early morning,Yet three days longer, three days, though no more—This for the stern desire and long disquietudeThat was his love for Cain; whom God had cursed.Then would he kiss all fatherly and so die—Kneeling, with eyes abased, they made him promise,Swore, at the midpoint of their second day,If unsped in the search of whom he named,They would come hasting home to Adam's tent.They touched his bony fingers; forth they went.

First-born yet outlawed! Scarcely they believed

In this strange word of "Cain," in this new man,

Man, yet outside the tents; but Adam swore

And gave them a fair sign of recognition.

There was a brand, he said, a firm red pillar

Parting Cain's brows, and Cain had mighty hands,

Sprouting luxurious hair, red, like his beard.

Moreover Adam said that by huge strength

Himself could stay this ebb of early morning,

Yet three days longer, three days, though no more—

This for the stern desire and long disquietude

That was his love for Cain; whom God had cursed.

Then would he kiss all fatherly and so die—

Kneeling, with eyes abased, they made him promise,

Swore, at the midpoint of their second day,

If unsped in the search of whom he named,

They would come hasting home to Adam's tent.

They touched his bony fingers; forth they went.

Now Seth, shielding his eyes, sees mistilyBreaking the horizon thirty miles away(A full day's journey) what but a wisp, a feather,A thin line, half a nothing—distant smoke!Blown smoke, a signal from that utmost ridgeOf desolation—the camp fire of Cain.He to restrain his twelve impetuous sons(He knows the razor-edge of their young spirit)Dissembles seeing, turns his steps about,Bids them come follow, but they little heeding,Scarce noting his commands, fasten their eyesOn smoke, so forfeit Adam's benediction,Striding forward into the wildernessWith eager thighs, forgetful of their oath,Adventurous for this monster, a new man,Their own kin—how accursed?—they haste forwonder.

Now Seth, shielding his eyes, sees mistily

Breaking the horizon thirty miles away

(A full day's journey) what but a wisp, a feather,

A thin line, half a nothing—distant smoke!

Blown smoke, a signal from that utmost ridge

Of desolation—the camp fire of Cain.

He to restrain his twelve impetuous sons

(He knows the razor-edge of their young spirit)

Dissembles seeing, turns his steps about,

Bids them come follow, but they little heeding,

Scarce noting his commands, fasten their eyes

On smoke, so forfeit Adam's benediction,

Striding forward into the wilderness

With eager thighs, forgetful of their oath,

Adventurous for this monster, a new man,

Their own kin—how accursed?—they haste for

wonder.

In my body lives a flame,Flame that burns me all the day,When a fierce sun does the same,I am charred away.Who could keep a smiling wit,Roasted so in heart and hide,Turning on the sun's red spit,Scorched by love inside?Caves I long for and cold rocks,Minnow-peopled country brooks,Blundering gales of Equinox,Sunless valley-nooks.Daily so I might restoreCalcined heart and shrivelled skin,A morning phoenix with proud roarKindled new within.

In my body lives a flame,Flame that burns me all the day,When a fierce sun does the same,I am charred away.

In my body lives a flame,

Flame that burns me all the day,

When a fierce sun does the same,

I am charred away.

Who could keep a smiling wit,Roasted so in heart and hide,Turning on the sun's red spit,Scorched by love inside?

Who could keep a smiling wit,

Roasted so in heart and hide,

Turning on the sun's red spit,

Scorched by love inside?

Caves I long for and cold rocks,Minnow-peopled country brooks,Blundering gales of Equinox,Sunless valley-nooks.

Caves I long for and cold rocks,

Minnow-peopled country brooks,

Blundering gales of Equinox,

Sunless valley-nooks.

Daily so I might restoreCalcined heart and shrivelled skin,A morning phoenix with proud roarKindled new within.

Daily so I might restore

Calcined heart and shrivelled skin,

A morning phoenix with proud roar

Kindled new within.

MotherEdward will not taste his food,Nor touch his drink,Flings me answers gruff and rude:Why, I dare not think.SisterMother, do not try to knowAll that moves in Edward's heart,The fiery gloom he will not show;You and he who lay so nearFall wide apart.Watch your rival, mother dear:Catherine Drury does not guessHis dark love or your envious fear,Her own loveliness.She will laugh, she will play,Never know the hurt she does:Edward's heart will melt away,His head go buzz,And if he thinks you read his mind,Better you had been struck stone blind.

Mother

Edward will not taste his food,Nor touch his drink,Flings me answers gruff and rude:Why, I dare not think.

Edward will not taste his food,

Nor touch his drink,

Flings me answers gruff and rude:

Why, I dare not think.

Sister

Mother, do not try to knowAll that moves in Edward's heart,The fiery gloom he will not show;You and he who lay so nearFall wide apart.Watch your rival, mother dear:Catherine Drury does not guessHis dark love or your envious fear,Her own loveliness.She will laugh, she will play,Never know the hurt she does:Edward's heart will melt away,His head go buzz,And if he thinks you read his mind,Better you had been struck stone blind.

Mother, do not try to know

All that moves in Edward's heart,

The fiery gloom he will not show;

You and he who lay so near

Fall wide apart.

Watch your rival, mother dear:

Catherine Drury does not guess

His dark love or your envious fear,

Her own loveliness.

She will laugh, she will play,

Never know the hurt she does:

Edward's heart will melt away,

His head go buzz,

And if he thinks you read his mind,

Better you had been struck stone blind.

A shaft of moon from the cloud-hurried sky,Has coursed the wide dark heath, but nowhere foundOne paler patch to illumine—oats nor rye,Chalk-pit nor waterpool nor sandy ground—Till, checked by our thronged faces on the mound(A wedge of whiteness) universallyStrained backward from the task that holds us bound,It beams on set jaw and hate-maddened eye.The vast stone lifts, turns, topples, in its fallSpreads death: but we who live raise a shrill chantOf joy for sacrifice cleansing us all.Once more we heave. Erect in earth we plant,The interpreter of our dumb furious call,Outraging Heaven, pointing"I want, I want."

A shaft of moon from the cloud-hurried sky,

Has coursed the wide dark heath, but nowhere found

One paler patch to illumine—oats nor rye,

Chalk-pit nor waterpool nor sandy ground—

Till, checked by our thronged faces on the mound

(A wedge of whiteness) universally

Strained backward from the task that holds us bound,

It beams on set jaw and hate-maddened eye.

The vast stone lifts, turns, topples, in its fallSpreads death: but we who live raise a shrill chantOf joy for sacrifice cleansing us all.Once more we heave. Erect in earth we plant,The interpreter of our dumb furious call,Outraging Heaven, pointing"I want, I want."

The vast stone lifts, turns, topples, in its fall

Spreads death: but we who live raise a shrill chant

Of joy for sacrifice cleansing us all.

Once more we heave. Erect in earth we plant,

The interpreter of our dumb furious call,

Outraging Heaven, pointing

"I want, I want."

Ann in chill moonlight unlocksHer polished brassbound treasure-box,Draws a soft breath, prepares to spreadThe toys around her on the bed.She dips for luck: by luck pulls outA silver pig with ring in snout,The sort that Christmas puddings yield;Next comes a painted nursery shieldBoy-carved; and then two yellow gloves,A Limerick wonder that Ann loves,Leather so thin and joined so wellThe pair fold in a walnut shell;Here's patchwork that her sister madeWith antique silk and flower brocade,Small faded scraps in memory richJoined each to each with feather-stitch;Here's cherry and forget-me-notRibbon bunched in a great knot;A satin purse with pansies on it;A Tudor baby's christening bonnet;Old Mechlin lace minutely knit(Some woman's eyes went blind for it);And Spanish broideries that pinchThree blossomed rosetrees to one inch;Here are Ann's brooches, simple pins,A Comet brooch, two Harlequins,A Posy; here's a great resplendentDove-in-bush Italian pendant;A Chelsea gift-bird; a toy whistle;A halfpenny stamped with the Scots thistle;A Breguet watch; a coral string;Her mother's thin-worn wedding ring;A straw box full of hard smooth sweets;A book, thePoems of John Keats;A chessman; a pink paper rose;A diary dwindling to its closeNine months ago; a worsted ball;A patchbox; a stray match—that's all,All but a few small treasured scrapsOf paper; things forbid perhaps—See how slowly Ann untiesThe packet where her heartache lies;Watch her lips move; she slants a letterUp towards the moon to read it better,(The moon may master what he can).R stands for Richard, A for AnnAnd L ... at this the old moon blinksAnd softly from the window shrinks.

Ann in chill moonlight unlocks

Her polished brassbound treasure-box,

Draws a soft breath, prepares to spread

The toys around her on the bed.

She dips for luck: by luck pulls out

A silver pig with ring in snout,

The sort that Christmas puddings yield;

Next comes a painted nursery shield

Boy-carved; and then two yellow gloves,

A Limerick wonder that Ann loves,

Leather so thin and joined so well

The pair fold in a walnut shell;

Here's patchwork that her sister made

With antique silk and flower brocade,

Small faded scraps in memory rich

Joined each to each with feather-stitch;

Here's cherry and forget-me-not

Ribbon bunched in a great knot;

A satin purse with pansies on it;

A Tudor baby's christening bonnet;

Old Mechlin lace minutely knit

(Some woman's eyes went blind for it);

And Spanish broideries that pinch

Three blossomed rosetrees to one inch;

Here are Ann's brooches, simple pins,

A Comet brooch, two Harlequins,

A Posy; here's a great resplendent

Dove-in-bush Italian pendant;

A Chelsea gift-bird; a toy whistle;

A halfpenny stamped with the Scots thistle;

A Breguet watch; a coral string;

Her mother's thin-worn wedding ring;

A straw box full of hard smooth sweets;

A book, thePoems of John Keats;

A chessman; a pink paper rose;

A diary dwindling to its close

Nine months ago; a worsted ball;

A patchbox; a stray match—that's all,

All but a few small treasured scraps

Of paper; things forbid perhaps—

See how slowly Ann unties

The packet where her heartache lies;

Watch her lips move; she slants a letter

Up towards the moon to read it better,

(The moon may master what he can).

R stands for Richard, A for Ann

And L ... at this the old moon blinks

And softly from the window shrinks.

Are you shaken, are you stirredBy a whisper of love,Spellbound to a wordDoes Time cease to move,Till her calm grey eyeExpands to a skyAnd the clouds of her hairLike storms go by?Then the lips that you have kissedTurn to frost and fire,And a white-steaming mistObscures desire:So back to their birthFade water, air, earth,And the First Power movesOver void and dearth.Is that Love? no, but Death,A passion, a shout,The deep in-breath,The breath roaring out,And once that is flown,You must lie alone,Without hope, without life,Poor flesh, sad bone.

Are you shaken, are you stirredBy a whisper of love,Spellbound to a wordDoes Time cease to move,Till her calm grey eyeExpands to a skyAnd the clouds of her hairLike storms go by?

Are you shaken, are you stirred

By a whisper of love,

Spellbound to a word

Does Time cease to move,

Till her calm grey eye

Expands to a sky

And the clouds of her hair

Like storms go by?

Then the lips that you have kissedTurn to frost and fire,And a white-steaming mistObscures desire:So back to their birthFade water, air, earth,And the First Power movesOver void and dearth.

Then the lips that you have kissed

Turn to frost and fire,

And a white-steaming mist

Obscures desire:

So back to their birth

Fade water, air, earth,

And the First Power moves

Over void and dearth.

Is that Love? no, but Death,A passion, a shout,The deep in-breath,The breath roaring out,And once that is flown,You must lie alone,Without hope, without life,Poor flesh, sad bone.

Is that Love? no, but Death,

A passion, a shout,

The deep in-breath,

The breath roaring out,

And once that is flown,

You must lie alone,

Without hope, without life,

Poor flesh, sad bone.

His eyes are quickened so with grief,He can watch a grass or leafEvery instant grow; he canClearly through a flint wall see,Or watch the startled spirit fleeFrom the throat of a dead man.Across two counties he can hear,And catch your words before you speak.The woodlouse or the maggot's weakClamour rings in his sad ear;And noise so slight it would surpassCredence:—drinking sound of grass,Worm talk, clashing jaws of mothChumbling holes in cloth:The groan of ants who undertakeGigantic loads for honour's sake,Their sinews creak, their breath comes thin:Whir of spiders when they spin,And minute whispering, mumbling, sighsOf idle grubs and flies.This man is quickened so with grief,He wanders god-like or like thiefInside and out, below, above,Without relief seeking lost love.

His eyes are quickened so with grief,

He can watch a grass or leaf

Every instant grow; he can

Clearly through a flint wall see,

Or watch the startled spirit flee

From the throat of a dead man.

Across two counties he can hear,

And catch your words before you speak.

The woodlouse or the maggot's weak

Clamour rings in his sad ear;

And noise so slight it would surpass

Credence:—drinking sound of grass,

Worm talk, clashing jaws of moth

Chumbling holes in cloth:

The groan of ants who undertake

Gigantic loads for honour's sake,

Their sinews creak, their breath comes thin:

Whir of spiders when they spin,

And minute whispering, mumbling, sighs

Of idle grubs and flies.

This man is quickened so with grief,

He wanders god-like or like thief

Inside and out, below, above,

Without relief seeking lost love.

Take now a country mood,Resolve, distil it:—Nine Acre swaying alive,June flowers that fill it,Spicy sweet-briar bush,The uneasy wrenFluttering from ash to birchAnd back again,Milkwort on its low stem,Spread hawthorn tree,Sunlight patching the wood,A hive-bound bee....Girls riding nim-nim-nim,Ladies, trot-trot,Gentlemen hard at gallop,Shouting, steam-hot.Now over the rough turfBridles go jingle,And there's a well loved pool,By Fox's Dingle,Where Sweetheart, my brown mare,Old Glory's daughter,May loll her leathern tongueIn snow-cool water.

Take now a country mood,Resolve, distil it:—Nine Acre swaying alive,June flowers that fill it,

Take now a country mood,

Resolve, distil it:—

Nine Acre swaying alive,

June flowers that fill it,

Spicy sweet-briar bush,The uneasy wrenFluttering from ash to birchAnd back again,

Spicy sweet-briar bush,

The uneasy wren

Fluttering from ash to birch

And back again,

Milkwort on its low stem,Spread hawthorn tree,Sunlight patching the wood,A hive-bound bee....

Milkwort on its low stem,

Spread hawthorn tree,

Sunlight patching the wood,

A hive-bound bee....

Girls riding nim-nim-nim,Ladies, trot-trot,Gentlemen hard at gallop,Shouting, steam-hot.

Girls riding nim-nim-nim,

Ladies, trot-trot,

Gentlemen hard at gallop,

Shouting, steam-hot.

Now over the rough turfBridles go jingle,And there's a well loved pool,By Fox's Dingle,

Now over the rough turf

Bridles go jingle,

And there's a well loved pool,

By Fox's Dingle,

Where Sweetheart, my brown mare,Old Glory's daughter,May loll her leathern tongueIn snow-cool water.

Where Sweetheart, my brown mare,

Old Glory's daughter,

May loll her leathern tongue

In snow-cool water.

The shepherd Watkin heard an inner voiceCalling "My creature, ho! be warned, be ready!"Calling, "The moment comes, therefore be ready!"And a third time calling, "Creature, be ready!"This old poor man mistook the call, which soundedNot for himself, but for his pensioner.Now (truth or phantasy) the shepherd nourishedFast in his brain, due earnings of transgression,A creature like to that avenging flyOnce crept unseen in at King Herod's ear,Tunnelling gradually inwards, upwards,Heading for flowery pastures of the brain,And battened on such grand, presumptuous fareAs grew him brazen claws and brazen hairAnd wings of iron mail. Old Watkin feltA like intruder channelling to and fro.He cursed his day and sin done in past years,Repentance choked, pride that outlawed his heart,So that at night often in thunderous weatherRacked with the pain he'd startFrom sleep, incontinently howling, leaping,Striking his hoar head on the cottage walls,Stamping his feet, dragging his hair by the roots.He'd rouse the Gnat to anger, send it buzzingLike a huge mill, scraping with metal clawsAt his midpoint of being; forthwith tumbleWith a great cry for Death to stoop and end him.Now Watkin hears the voice and weeps for bliss,The voice that warned "Creature, the time is come."Merciful Death, was it Death, all his desire?Promised of Heaven, and speedy? O Death, come!Only for one thought must he make provision,For honest Prinny, for old bob-tail Prinny.Another master? Where? These hillside croftersWere spiteful to their beasts and mercenary.Prinny to such? No, Prinny too must die.By his own hand, then? Murder! By what other?No human hand should touch the sacrifice,No human hand;God's hand then, through his temporal minister.Three times has Watkin in the morning earlyWhen not a soul was rising, left his flock,Come to the Minister's house through the cold mist,Clicked at the latch and slowly moved the gate,Faltered, held back and dared not enter in."Not this time, Prinny, we'll not rouse them yet,To-morrow, surely, for our death is tokened,My death and your death with small interval.We meet in fields beyond; be sure of it, Prinny!"On the next nightThe busy Gnat, swollen to giant size,Pent-up within the skull, knew certainly,As a bird knows in the egg, his hour was come.The thrice repeated call had given him summons ...He must out, crack the shell, out, out!He strains, claps his wings, arches his back,Drives in his talons, out! out!In the white anguish of this travail, WatkinHurls off his blankets, tears an axe from the nailBatters the bed, hews table, splits the floor,Hears Prinny whine at his feet, leaps, strikes again,Strikes, yammering.At that instant with a clatterNoise of a bursting dam, a toppling wall,Out flies the new-born creature from his mouthAnd humming fearsomely like a huge engine,Rackets about the room, smites the unseenGlass of half-open windows, reels, recovers,Soars out into the meadows, and is gone.Silence prolonged to an age. Watkin still lives?The hour of travail by the voice foretoldBrought no last throbbings of the dying BodyIn child-birth of the Soul. Watkin still lives.Labourer Watkin delves in the wet fields.Did an old shepherd die that night with Prinny,Die weeping with his head on the outraged corpse?Oh, he's forgotten. A dead dream, a cloud.Labourer Watkin delves, drowsily, numbly,His harsh spade grates among the buried stones.

The shepherd Watkin heard an inner voiceCalling "My creature, ho! be warned, be ready!"Calling, "The moment comes, therefore be ready!"And a third time calling, "Creature, be ready!"

The shepherd Watkin heard an inner voice

Calling "My creature, ho! be warned, be ready!"

Calling, "The moment comes, therefore be ready!"

And a third time calling, "Creature, be ready!"

This old poor man mistook the call, which soundedNot for himself, but for his pensioner.Now (truth or phantasy) the shepherd nourishedFast in his brain, due earnings of transgression,A creature like to that avenging flyOnce crept unseen in at King Herod's ear,Tunnelling gradually inwards, upwards,Heading for flowery pastures of the brain,And battened on such grand, presumptuous fareAs grew him brazen claws and brazen hairAnd wings of iron mail. Old Watkin feltA like intruder channelling to and fro.He cursed his day and sin done in past years,Repentance choked, pride that outlawed his heart,So that at night often in thunderous weatherRacked with the pain he'd startFrom sleep, incontinently howling, leaping,Striking his hoar head on the cottage walls,Stamping his feet, dragging his hair by the roots.He'd rouse the Gnat to anger, send it buzzingLike a huge mill, scraping with metal clawsAt his midpoint of being; forthwith tumbleWith a great cry for Death to stoop and end him.

This old poor man mistook the call, which sounded

Not for himself, but for his pensioner.

Now (truth or phantasy) the shepherd nourished

Fast in his brain, due earnings of transgression,

A creature like to that avenging fly

Once crept unseen in at King Herod's ear,

Tunnelling gradually inwards, upwards,

Heading for flowery pastures of the brain,

And battened on such grand, presumptuous fare

As grew him brazen claws and brazen hair

And wings of iron mail. Old Watkin felt

A like intruder channelling to and fro.

He cursed his day and sin done in past years,

Repentance choked, pride that outlawed his heart,

So that at night often in thunderous weather

Racked with the pain he'd start

From sleep, incontinently howling, leaping,

Striking his hoar head on the cottage walls,

Stamping his feet, dragging his hair by the roots.

He'd rouse the Gnat to anger, send it buzzing

Like a huge mill, scraping with metal claws

At his midpoint of being; forthwith tumble

With a great cry for Death to stoop and end him.

Now Watkin hears the voice and weeps for bliss,The voice that warned "Creature, the time is come."Merciful Death, was it Death, all his desire?Promised of Heaven, and speedy? O Death, come!

Now Watkin hears the voice and weeps for bliss,

The voice that warned "Creature, the time is come."

Merciful Death, was it Death, all his desire?

Promised of Heaven, and speedy? O Death, come!

Only for one thought must he make provision,For honest Prinny, for old bob-tail Prinny.Another master? Where? These hillside croftersWere spiteful to their beasts and mercenary.Prinny to such? No, Prinny too must die.By his own hand, then? Murder! By what other?No human hand should touch the sacrifice,No human hand;God's hand then, through his temporal minister.

Only for one thought must he make provision,

For honest Prinny, for old bob-tail Prinny.

Another master? Where? These hillside crofters

Were spiteful to their beasts and mercenary.

Prinny to such? No, Prinny too must die.

By his own hand, then? Murder! By what other?

No human hand should touch the sacrifice,

No human hand;

God's hand then, through his temporal minister.

Three times has Watkin in the morning earlyWhen not a soul was rising, left his flock,Come to the Minister's house through the cold mist,Clicked at the latch and slowly moved the gate,Faltered, held back and dared not enter in."Not this time, Prinny, we'll not rouse them yet,To-morrow, surely, for our death is tokened,My death and your death with small interval.We meet in fields beyond; be sure of it, Prinny!"

Three times has Watkin in the morning early

When not a soul was rising, left his flock,

Come to the Minister's house through the cold mist,

Clicked at the latch and slowly moved the gate,

Faltered, held back and dared not enter in.

"Not this time, Prinny, we'll not rouse them yet,

To-morrow, surely, for our death is tokened,

My death and your death with small interval.

We meet in fields beyond; be sure of it, Prinny!"

On the next nightThe busy Gnat, swollen to giant size,Pent-up within the skull, knew certainly,As a bird knows in the egg, his hour was come.The thrice repeated call had given him summons ...He must out, crack the shell, out, out!He strains, claps his wings, arches his back,Drives in his talons, out! out!

On the next night

The busy Gnat, swollen to giant size,

Pent-up within the skull, knew certainly,

As a bird knows in the egg, his hour was come.

The thrice repeated call had given him summons ...

He must out, crack the shell, out, out!

He strains, claps his wings, arches his back,

Drives in his talons, out! out!

In the white anguish of this travail, WatkinHurls off his blankets, tears an axe from the nailBatters the bed, hews table, splits the floor,Hears Prinny whine at his feet, leaps, strikes again,Strikes, yammering.At that instant with a clatterNoise of a bursting dam, a toppling wall,Out flies the new-born creature from his mouthAnd humming fearsomely like a huge engine,Rackets about the room, smites the unseenGlass of half-open windows, reels, recovers,Soars out into the meadows, and is gone.

In the white anguish of this travail, Watkin

Hurls off his blankets, tears an axe from the nail

Batters the bed, hews table, splits the floor,

Hears Prinny whine at his feet, leaps, strikes again,

Strikes, yammering.

At that instant with a clatter

Noise of a bursting dam, a toppling wall,

Out flies the new-born creature from his mouth

And humming fearsomely like a huge engine,

Rackets about the room, smites the unseen

Glass of half-open windows, reels, recovers,

Soars out into the meadows, and is gone.

Silence prolonged to an age. Watkin still lives?The hour of travail by the voice foretoldBrought no last throbbings of the dying BodyIn child-birth of the Soul. Watkin still lives.

Silence prolonged to an age. Watkin still lives?

The hour of travail by the voice foretold

Brought no last throbbings of the dying Body

In child-birth of the Soul. Watkin still lives.

Labourer Watkin delves in the wet fields.Did an old shepherd die that night with Prinny,Die weeping with his head on the outraged corpse?Oh, he's forgotten. A dead dream, a cloud.Labourer Watkin delves, drowsily, numbly,His harsh spade grates among the buried stones.

Labourer Watkin delves in the wet fields.

Did an old shepherd die that night with Prinny,

Die weeping with his head on the outraged corpse?

Oh, he's forgotten. A dead dream, a cloud.

Labourer Watkin delves, drowsily, numbly,

His harsh spade grates among the buried stones.

Across the room my silent love I throw,Where you sit sewing in bed by candlelight,Your young stern profile and industrious fingersDisplayed against the blind in a shadow show,To Dinda's grave delight.The needle dips and pokes, the cheerful threadRuns after, follow-my-leader down the seam:The patchwork pieces cry for joy together,O soon to sit as a crown on Dinda's head,Fulfilment of their dream.Snippets and odd ends folded by, forgotten,With camphor on a top shelf, hard to find,Now wake to this most happy resurrection,To Dinda playing toss with a reel of cottonAnd staring at the blind.Dinda in sing-song stretching out one handCalls for the playthings; mother does not hear:Her mind sails far away on a patchwork Ocean,And all the world must wait till she touches land,So Dinda cries in fear,Then Mother turns, laughing like a young fairy,And Dinda smiles to see her look so kind,Calls out again for playthings, playthings, playthings,And now the shadows make an Umbrian "MaryAdoring," on the blind.

Across the room my silent love I throw,

Where you sit sewing in bed by candlelight,

Your young stern profile and industrious fingers

Displayed against the blind in a shadow show,

To Dinda's grave delight.

The needle dips and pokes, the cheerful threadRuns after, follow-my-leader down the seam:The patchwork pieces cry for joy together,O soon to sit as a crown on Dinda's head,Fulfilment of their dream.

The needle dips and pokes, the cheerful thread

Runs after, follow-my-leader down the seam:

The patchwork pieces cry for joy together,

O soon to sit as a crown on Dinda's head,

Fulfilment of their dream.

Snippets and odd ends folded by, forgotten,With camphor on a top shelf, hard to find,Now wake to this most happy resurrection,To Dinda playing toss with a reel of cottonAnd staring at the blind.

Snippets and odd ends folded by, forgotten,

With camphor on a top shelf, hard to find,

Now wake to this most happy resurrection,

To Dinda playing toss with a reel of cotton

And staring at the blind.

Dinda in sing-song stretching out one handCalls for the playthings; mother does not hear:Her mind sails far away on a patchwork Ocean,And all the world must wait till she touches land,So Dinda cries in fear,

Dinda in sing-song stretching out one hand

Calls for the playthings; mother does not hear:

Her mind sails far away on a patchwork Ocean,

And all the world must wait till she touches land,

So Dinda cries in fear,

Then Mother turns, laughing like a young fairy,And Dinda smiles to see her look so kind,Calls out again for playthings, playthings, playthings,And now the shadows make an Umbrian "MaryAdoring," on the blind.

Then Mother turns, laughing like a young fairy,

And Dinda smiles to see her look so kind,

Calls out again for playthings, playthings, playthings,

And now the shadows make an Umbrian "Mary

Adoring," on the blind.

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