The Wild Knight and Other Poems | Page 4

my nostrils,?Through blossoms red or gold,?Of my own green flower unfading,?A bitter smell and bold.
The lily smells of pardon,?The rose of mirth; but mine?Smells shrewd of death and honour,?And the doom of Adam's line.
The heavy scent of wine-shops?Floats as I pass them by,?But never a cup I quaff from,?And never a house have I.
Till dropped down forty fathoms,?I lie eternally;?And drink from God's own goblet?The green wine of the sea.
THE TRIUMPH OF MAN
I plod and peer amid mean sounds and shapes,?I hunt for dusty gain and dreary praise,?And slowly pass the dismal grinning days,?Monkeying each other like a line of apes.
What care? There was one hour amid all these?When I had stripped off like a tawdry glove?My starriest hopes and wants, for very love?Of time and desolate eternities.
Yea, for one great hour's triumph, not in me?Nor any hope of mine did I rejoice,?But in a meadow game of girls and boys?Some sunset in the centuries to be.
CYCLOPEAN
A mountainous and mystic brute?No rein can curb, no arrow shoot,?Upon whose domed deformed back?I sweep the planets scorching track.
Old is the elf, and wise, men say,?His hair grows green as ours grows grey;?He mocks the stars with myriad hands.?High as that swinging forest stands.
But though in pigmy wanderings dull?I scour the deserts of his skull,?I never find the face, eyes, teeth.?Lowering or laughing underneath.
I met my foe in an empty dell,?His face in the sun was naked hell.?I thought, 'One silent, bloody blow.?No priest would curse, no crowd would know.'
Then cowered: a daisy, half concealed,?Watched for the fame of that poor field;?And in that flower and suddenly?Earth opened its one eye on me.
JOSEPH
If the stars fell; night's nameless dreams?Of bliss and blasphemy came true,?If skies were green and snow were gold,?And you loved me as I love you;
O long light hands and curled brown hair,?And eyes where sits a naked soul;?Dare I even then draw near and burn?My fingers in the aureole?
Yes, in the one wise foolish hour?God gives this strange strength to a man.?He can demand, though not deserve,?Where ask he cannot, seize he can.
But once the blood's wild wedding o'er,?Were not dread his, half dark desire,?To see the Christ-child in the cot,?The Virgin Mary by the fire?
MODERN ELFLAND
I Cut a staff in a churchyard copse,?I clad myself in ragged things,?I set a feather in my cap?That fell out of an angel's wings.
I filled my wallet with white stones,?I took three foxgloves in my hand,?I slung my shoes across my back,?And so I went to fairyland.
But Lo, within that ancient place?Science had reared her iron crown,?And the great cloud of steam went up?That telleth where she takes a town.
But cowled with smoke and starred with lamps?That strange land's light was still its own;?The word that witched the woods and hills?Spoke in the iron and the stone.
Not Nature's hand had ever curved?That mute unearthly porter's spine.?Like sleeping dragon's sudden eyes?The signals leered along the line.
The chimneys thronging crooked or straight?Were fingers signalling the sky;?The dog that strayed across the street?Seemed four-legged by monstrosity.
'In vain,' I cried, 'though you too touch?The new time's desecrating hand,?Through all the noises of a town?I hear the heart of fairyland.'
I read the name above a door,?Then through my spirit pealed and passed:?'This is the town of thine own home,?And thou hast looked on it at last.'
ETERNITIES
I cannot count the pebbles in the brook.?Well hath He spoken: 'Swear not by thy head,?Thou knowest not the hairs,' though He, we read,?Writes that wild number in his own strange book.
I cannot count the sands or search the seas,?Death cometh, and I leave so much untrod.?Grant my immortal aureole, O my God,?And I will name the leaves upon the trees.
In heaven I shall stand on gold and glass,?Still brooding earth's arithmetic to spell;?Or see the fading of the fires of hell?Ere I have thanked my God for all the grass.
A CHRISTMAS CAROL
The Christ-child lay on Mary's lap,?His hair was like a light.?(O weary, weary were the world,?But here is all aright.)
The Christ-child lay on Mary's breast,?His hair was like a star.?(O stern and cunning are the kings,?But here the true hearts are.)
The Christ-child lay on Mary's heart,?His hair was like a fire.?(O weary, weary is the world,?But here the world's desire.)
The Christ-child stood at Mary's knee,?His hair was like a crown,?And all the flowers looked up at him.?And all the stars looked down.
ALONE
Blessings there are of cradle and of clan,?Blessings that fall of priests' and princes' hands;?But never blessing full of lives and lands,?Broad as the blessing of a lonely man.
Though that old king fell from his primal throne,?And ate among the cattle, yet this pride?Had found him in the deepest grass, and cried?An 'Ecce Homo' with the trumpets blown.
And no mad tyrant, with almighty ban,?Who in strong madness dreams himself divine,?But hears through fumes of flattery and of wine?The thunder of