Tuesday, May 25, 2010

After G.M.H.

Over the hill, a dull cage
Draws fire, catches flame
From the cruel beyond;
Tell me child, Father
To the man, earnest,
Earthless, of this
Sweet landscape, sing to me.
Eurydice- even the Furies wept.
The hard wood dappled
With honor dark, hark
Fair fallen oak, the mind’s
Mirror, how lovely we see?

In midsummer morning, lined
With grass, this house
Where fall of darkness
Looks up to grieving sky,
I, this mortal airy cage,
This humble flight, holds only
Close this mournful lyre,
This rock’s face, this calcified,
Heart’s eye, too old to end,
Beholding forked lightning,
A flickering candle, the unfeeling,
Barbarous wind. I come from

This darksome art no
High-hung bells can answer.
Light grows less to hymns
Gilded to hang between
Mortal beauty, hovering
And haunting, than these
Shy wings which long for rest
From those who bow, who bless.