 | Poems and Dramas by "Fiona MacLeod" (William Sharp) |  |
211
BY THE GREY STONE
It is quiet here: the wet hill-wind's sigh
Sobs faintly, as though behind a curtain of thick grass.
The vanishing curlew wails a fading cry.
Sobs faintly, as though behind a curtain of thick grass.
The vanishing curlew wails a fading cry.
I can hear the least soft footfall pass.
Is that the shrewmouse I hear, or does the night-moth whirr?
I have waited so long, so long, so long, alas!
Is that the shrewmouse I hear, or does the night-moth whirr?
I have waited so long, so long, so long, alas!
No one. No one. I hear no faintest stir.
Yet Love spake once, with lips of flame and eyes of fire,
With breath of burning frankincense and myrrh—
Yet Love spake once, with lips of flame and eyes of fire,
With breath of burning frankincense and myrrh—
Spake, and the vow was even as Desire...
Terrible, winged, magnific, crested with flame,
So that I bowed before it, mounting gyre upon gyre....
Terrible, winged, magnific, crested with flame,
So that I bowed before it, mounting gyre upon gyre....
212
I see now a grey bird by the grey stone of no name:
It is blind and deaf, and its wings are tipped with mire.
Is it Love's lordly vow or mine own bitter shame?
It is blind and deaf, and its wings are tipped with mire.
Is it Love's lordly vow or mine own bitter shame?
| Poems and Dramas by "Fiona MacLeod" (William Sharp) | |