 | The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan |  |
Now at the bottom of a snowy mountain
I came upon a woman thin with sorrow,
Whose voice was like the crying of a seagull.
I came upon a woman thin with sorrow,
Whose voice was like the crying of a seagull.
Saying, ‘O Angel of the Lord, come hither,
And bring me him I seek for on thy bosom,
That I may close his eyelids and embrace him.
And bring me him I seek for on thy bosom,
That I may close his eyelids and embrace him.
270
‘I curse thee that I cannot look upon him!
I curse thee that I know not he is sleeping!
Yet know that he has vanished upon God!
I curse thee that I know not he is sleeping!
Yet know that he has vanished upon God!
‘I laid my little girl upon a wood-bier,
And very sweet she seemed, and near unto me;
And slipping flowers into her shroud was comfort.
And very sweet she seemed, and near unto me;
And slipping flowers into her shroud was comfort.
‘I put my silver mother in the darkness,
And kissed her, and was solaced by her kisses,
And set a stone, to mark the place, above her.
And kissed her, and was solaced by her kisses,
And set a stone, to mark the place, above her.
‘And green, green were their quiet sleeping-places,
So green that it was pleasant to remember
That I and my tall man would sleep beside them.
So green that it was pleasant to remember
That I and my tall man would sleep beside them.
‘The closing of dead eyelids is not dreadful,
For comfort comes upon us when we close them,
And tears fall, and our sorrow grows familiar;
For comfort comes upon us when we close them,
And tears fall, and our sorrow grows familiar;
‘And we can sit above them where they slumber,
And spin a dreamy pain into a sweetness,
And know indeed that we are very near them.
And spin a dreamy pain into a sweetness,
And know indeed that we are very near them.
‘But to reach out empty arms is surely dreadful,
And to feel the hollow empty world is awful,
And bitter grow the silence and the distance.
And to feel the hollow empty world is awful,
And bitter grow the silence and the distance.
‘There is no space for grieving or for weeping;
No touch, no cold, no agony to strive with,
And nothing but a horror and a blankness!’
No touch, no cold, no agony to strive with,
And nothing but a horror and a blankness!’
| The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan | |