Classic Poem

Enchanted as those days in Caliban's isle,
A music from the night falls on my hill,
And variously played.
In the hushed moonrise many sounds there are,
Inaudible but to the moods of prayer,
Into one music made.

Over the foothills from the valley comes
The lowing of some straggler from the herd,
Roaming in pastures deep.
A sheep-dog's challenge through the dark is met
By the ewe-mothers and their lambs that now
Are muffled flocks of sleep.

Sweeping across the fern twin measures go,
Towards Worcester one, and Hereford, where weave,
Glooming, a pair of jars.
Faintly, afar, a brown owl speaks the night,
And hears high up, from out these hill-top pines,
His mate among the stars.

And, under all, the wind about the gorse
Creeps, or as fire rushes, and burns up
All sound into one song.
And in the night it flows about my grief,
Healing a little, as on Setebos
Was eased that older wrong.

So in my heart beauty with beauty strives,
And good slays good. O spirit of wisdom, run,
As the wise wind to-night,
Through me, and make my crazy tunes all one;
Upon the trouble of my blindness bring
Light, and for ever light.