Bronze Into Iron

Winds weather down the granite mountains,
Nile abandons his terraces,
Zinc has married tin and copper in the glazing fire;
While gnome-like black folk seek the hill-hid caves,
And red-haired warriors, glistening blue with woad,
Dash through oak forests in small bell-hung chariots.
Altar-fires twinkle at Stonehenge;
Men burn in wicker cages at Mona;
Odin's ravens commence to spy out the Earth.
Southward, pride solidifies in pyramids
Over the selfish sleep of Theban kings;
While Memnon wearies,

Lyric Interlude Astronomical

Spin, Top of the Ages, spin!
Sun-gilt upon your western and oriental rim;
Peer from your red-gold frame of dawn and sunset
With your gracious face of hooded-waters.
Gaze longingly upon the moon,
Like lover at the dead face of his darling.
Has not the moon died for desire of you,
Pursing cold lips up through the ages
For the kiss withheld by space?
Ah! What a heat if you could come together!
Circle, Moon, weave your deadly ovals
Till your tidal spell has drawn the Earth to sleep

SAGA OF THE NORTH

In the Beginning

Vision the sun and stars,
The gold-faced central sun,
Wandering like glittering Apollo
With the planet muses
Across the star-enamelled fields of space.
Spy out the tilting ice-tipped Earth,
Curving through nothingness,
Dogged by her blue void-shadow.
Look from the eyes in the astonished mask
Of the beardless and purse-mouthed moon
At the merging and melting of moods
On the face of the northern hemisphere.

THE HAND IS IN THE GLOVE ,
WHICH IS CLASPED BY SUNS

MADRIGAL 2

Beauty, therefore, is the obvious sign
of the asset, or its institution in which he resides,
or well ch'indi can occur in which
beautiful par, or of ambition, and of others can serve as proof.
Here, the light of the heavenly kingdom,
Are the beauty and simple living, show nui
great valor, who quickens and benefits to many people:
only ugly shade, beautiful bodies blinds.
Of snakes and dragons whistle and skill
and various painting
we're in fear,

The goddess gone! ah, no more here
But wrapt up with our school-boy gear
Of dactyl and trochee, no more
On this side of the Stygean shore!
The Sickle too, when I was young,
A doleful when, so long ago!
Was polished bright though never sung.
But now alack, it too must go
Among forgotten things too slow
For these our frantic hours of speed:
No more the boast of kirtled maid,
It rusts among the long decayed;
Nor more, like Ruth, the gleaner need
Stoop her flexile back to-day.
Make clear the way!
The grand machine with man and steed,

Beloved Sickle, thou hast been
Where lyre or sword were never seen,
And round thee, like the ivy screen
Around a faun's brown knotted hair,
Clung hopes and fears and blessings rare
In a warmer clime
In a distant time
A goddess held thee in her hand
About whose head's immortal band
Were braided ears of bearded corn,
More loved than even the halo borne
By Phaebus or than Dian's horn.
Round this maternal-goddess' shrine
There was a flower-encircled glow
Of fruitage and of wine,
To her the autumnal overflow

Most potent sun, how beautiful
Old harvest days have been,
With health and peace, the garner full,
The fields more yellow than green;
When upwards thrown on the arch that leaps
The fly-frequented stream,
Where the tired midday traveller sleeps,
Danced ever-more the ripple's gleam;
And on its ledge a white-haired child
Sat for idling hours beguiled,
Peeping down right cautiously
A glimmering water friend to see
Smiling from beneath, with hair
Like his own but still more fair.
Beside him laid the bunch of grain,

Reach the old Sickle from the wall
Where it hath hung so long.
The reaper's re-awakening song
Sounds the autumn's annual call,
Bewildering the watchful hare
In his yet unhunted lair.
Dear old Sickle, once again
The undergrowth of poppies red,
Whose beauties on themselves were shed,
Shall dazzle soon the trembling air,
When the wheat-ears over head
Across thy curved blade have lain,
In triumph as the reaper's eye
Smiles to his fair mate jocundly.

Sacred old Sickle, while the wind
Died on the winter's crisped rind,

LXXI.

And hence arose that intimacy warm,
Which gather'd strength from every passing year,
Where piety and passion join'd to charm,
In friendship ardent, generous, and sincere
In toils united, they were wont to bear
The scorching summer noon, the wintry morn,
And often have they linger'd long to hear
The redbreast warbling from the wintry thorn,

LXI.

Yet still no Stoic he, with cold neglect
To treat his own, despising nature's tie;
Nor raving, rapt, enthusiast, to expect
A miracle from heaven for their supply —
No, no; the dew that moistens either eye,
The heavy sigh he labours to suppress,
While stretching forth his feeble hand, to dry
The stream of grief that flows on every face,