 | Rehearsals (1870) |  |
102
THE SPEAR-HEAD.
In a field on a hill pacing alone,
Near a gray stone-wall and peat-plash of rushes.
Something one mound means, the field's only one,
Where the sour autumn wind saddens and hushes.
Near a gray stone-wall and peat-plash of rushes.
Something one mound means, the field's only one,
Where the sour autumn wind saddens and hushes.
When the wind pauses the weird of the place
Greatens in stillness; low whispers in silence
Grow with strange faces; Alas, not his face;
And the sound comes of a river round islands.
Greatens in stillness; low whispers in silence
Grow with strange faces; Alas, not his face;
And the sound comes of a river round islands.
Hearken! I fancy a trample of steeds.
See, they meet with a clash; lances are broken.
One steed goes riderless: one rider bleeds:
Has he not brave rippled hair for a token?
See, they meet with a clash; lances are broken.
One steed goes riderless: one rider bleeds:
Has he not brave rippled hair for a token?
103
Soon fades the vision. I'm pacing there still;
Musing, with wraiths of old anguish surrounded.
Is that a raven's cry half down the hill?
Why must it sound like a groan of the wounded?
Musing, with wraiths of old anguish surrounded.
Is that a raven's cry half down the hill?
Why must it sound like a groan of the wounded?
But where he fell a curse rests. It grows bald;
Why will no countryman climb up and sow it?
Seen from the valley, a broken brown scald,
Even the school-children point at and know it.
Why will no countryman climb up and sow it?
Seen from the valley, a broken brown scald,
Even the school-children point at and know it.
Has the gray hill-gloom infected its grass,
Since but a crow or two cares to sail thither?
Shrubs in that place have arrived at a pass
When it seems worse to exist than to wither.
Since but a crow or two cares to sail thither?
Shrubs in that place have arrived at a pass
When it seems worse to exist than to wither.
There's mat-grass anyhow; pale, dry as hay.
Why should I search every tussock twice over?
I had gone seeking a year and a day,
When at length what do you think I discover?
Why should I search every tussock twice over?
I had gone seeking a year and a day,
When at length what do you think I discover?
104
Treasure! I hurried it home to my nest.
Wore my lips out on it till I was wearied.
See, like a jewel, it hangs in my breast,
Tho' it be only a broken-off spear-head.
Wore my lips out on it till I was wearied.
See, like a jewel, it hangs in my breast,
Tho' it be only a broken-off spear-head.
| Rehearsals (1870) | |