 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
139
THE MOLE
Dig deeper yet, sir mole, in the patient ground,
Score not my sloping park
With starting turf uplifted, crumbling mound,
Old delver in the dark!
Score not my sloping park
With starting turf uplifted, crumbling mound,
Old delver in the dark!
For thee no gin with iron shears is set,
To nip thy velvet hide;
But tempt me not, or I shall pinch thee yet,
Seeing the world is wide.
To nip thy velvet hide;
But tempt me not, or I shall pinch thee yet,
Seeing the world is wide.
I make no claim to ampler dignity,
Nor check the tiny scale,
We live our destined hour, nor when we die
Shall meet successors fail.
Nor check the tiny scale,
We live our destined hour, nor when we die
Shall meet successors fail.
I do not ask from thy vicarious pain,
To win ambiguous good,
Or draw strange secrets from thy shattered brain
And palpitating blood.
To win ambiguous good,
Or draw strange secrets from thy shattered brain
And palpitating blood.
Like thee I feast on what I did not earn,
And quake at destiny,
But seeing I am stronger, thou shalt learn
To do my will, or die.
And quake at destiny,
But seeing I am stronger, thou shalt learn
To do my will, or die.
140
The earth-worm hears thee scraping overhead,
To push thy tunnel dim,
In vain he writhes across his oozy bed,
If thou encounter him.
To push thy tunnel dim,
In vain he writhes across his oozy bed,
If thou encounter him.
Thy comfortable cape so deftly dight,
Unnoted girds thee round:
Who set those hands so scholarly and white
To fumble underground?
Unnoted girds thee round:
Who set those hands so scholarly and white
To fumble underground?
But shouldst thou think thyself too fine to hide,
Too dainty to be foul,
Oh, wait awhile till thou hast proved and tried
What frets a human soul!
Too dainty to be foul,
Oh, wait awhile till thou hast proved and tried
What frets a human soul!
I mine, and countermine, and blindly run,
Beset with snare and gin,
And even beneath free air and merry sun
Dark fancies shut me in.
Beset with snare and gin,
And even beneath free air and merry sun
Dark fancies shut me in.
For both alike the darkness and the day,
The sunshine and the showers;
We draw sad comfort, thinking we obey
A deeper will than ours.
The sunshine and the showers;
We draw sad comfort, thinking we obey
A deeper will than ours.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |