Volume Ii Part 33 (1/2)

Lither, noisy in the breezes now his sisters s.h.i.+vering weep, By the river flowing smooth out to the vexed sea of Adria, Where he fell, and where they suffered sudden change to the tremulous Ever-wailful trees bemoaning him, a bruised purple cyclamen.

SEED-TIME

I

Flowers of the willow-herb are wool; Flowers of the briar berries red; Speeding their seed as the breeze may rule, Flowers of the thistle loosen the thread.

Flowers of the clematis drip in beard, Slack from the fir-tree youngly climbed; Chaplets in air, flies foliage seared; Heeled upon earth, lie cl.u.s.ters rimed.

II

Where were skies of the mantle stained Orange and scarlet, a coat of frieze Travels from North till day has waned, Tattered, soaked in the ditch's dyes; Tumbles the rook under grey or slate; Else enfolding us, damps to the bone; Narrows the world to my neighbour's gate; Paints me Life as a wheezy crone.

III

Now seems none but the spider lord; Star in circle his web waits prey, Silvering bush-mounds, blue brus.h.i.+ng sward; Slow runs the hour, swift flits the ray.

Now to his thread-shroud is he nigh, Nigh to the tangle where wings are sealed, He who frolicked the jewelled fly; All is adroop on the down and the weald.

IV

Mists more lone for the sheep-bell enwrap Nights that tardily let slip a morn Paler than moons, and on noontide's lap Flame dies cold, like the rose late born.

Rose born late, born withered in bud! - I, even I, for a zenith of sun Cry, to fulfil me, nourish my blood: O for a day of the long light, one!

V

Master the blood, nor read by chills, Earth admonishes: Hast thou ploughed, Sown, reaped, harvested grain for the mills, Thou hast the light over shadow of cloud.

Steadily eyeing, before that wail Animal-infant, thy mind began, Momently nearer me: should sight fail, Plod in the track of the husbandman.

VI

Verily now is our season of seed, Now in our Autumn; and Earth discerns Them that have served her in them that can read, Gla.s.sing, where under the surface she burns, Quick at her wheel, while the fuel, decay, Brightens the fire of renewal: and we?

Death is the word of a bovine day, Know you the breast of the springing To-be.

HARD WEATHER

Bursts from a rending East in flaws The young green leaflet's harrier, sworn To strew the garden, strip the shaws, And show our Spring with banner torn.

Was ever such virago morn?

The wind has teeth, the wind has claws.

All the wind's wolves through woods are loose, The wild wind's falconry aloft.

Shrill underfoot the gra.s.sblade shrews, At gallop, clumped, and down the croft Bestrid by shadows, beaten, tossed; It seems a scythe, it seems a rod.

The howl is up at the howl's accost; The s.h.i.+vers greet and the s.h.i.+vers nod.

Is the land s.h.i.+p? we are rolled, we drive Tritonly, cleaving hiss and hum; Whirl with the dead, or mount or dive, Or down in dregs, or on in sc.u.m.

And drums the distant, pipes the near, And vale and hill are grey in grey, As when the surge is crumbling sheer, And sea-mews wing the haze of spray.

Clouds--are they bony witches?--swarms, Darting swift on the robber's flight, Hurry an infant sky in arms: It peeps, it becks; 'tis day, 'tis night.

Black while over the loop of blue The swathe is closed, like shroud on corse.

Lo, as if swift the Furies flew, The Fates at heel at a cry to horse!

Interpret me the savage whirr: And is it Nature scourged, or she, Her offspring's executioner, Reducing land to barren sea?