 | The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley |  |
THE WINDMILL
Desolate windmill, eyelid of the distance,
Gaunt as a gibbet, ruled against the sky:
Rolling and rocking in the wind's persistence,
Thy black uplifted dome-house seems to fly:
Gaunt as a gibbet, ruled against the sky:
Rolling and rocking in the wind's persistence,
Thy black uplifted dome-house seems to fly:
Writhing its wings, as eagle Promethean,
Who tears the Titan on Caucasian height.
While all the gentle gods above sing pæan,
To see Jove's red-winged vengeance rend and smite.
Who tears the Titan on Caucasian height.
While all the gentle gods above sing pæan,
To see Jove's red-winged vengeance rend and smite.
Emblem of Life, whose roots are torn asunder,
An isolated soul that hates its kind,
Who loves the region of the rolling thunder,
And finds seclusion in the misty wind.
An isolated soul that hates its kind,
Who loves the region of the rolling thunder,
And finds seclusion in the misty wind.
Type of a love, that wrecks itself to pieces
Against the barriers of relentless Fate,
And tears its lovely pinions on the breezes
Of just too early or of just too late.
Against the barriers of relentless Fate,
And tears its lovely pinions on the breezes
Of just too early or of just too late.
The desolation of a moorland wasted,
An endless heath, half-tinged with reddening ling:
Gray bitter tracts which ploughshare never tasted,
Too sour to waken at the voice of spring.
An endless heath, half-tinged with reddening ling:
Gray bitter tracts which ploughshare never tasted,
Too sour to waken at the voice of spring.
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These wiry roots revive not, when the zephyrs
Unclasp the budded fragrance on the thorn.
Not here shall come the sound of lowing heifers,
Not here shall heave the rippling waves of corn.
Unclasp the budded fragrance on the thorn.
Not here shall come the sound of lowing heifers,
Not here shall heave the rippling waves of corn.
In thee, old mill, I see Ixion quiver,
Chained on a wheel in Acherusian deep,
Upon whose weary eyelids not for ever
Descends the healing balm of angel sleep.
Chained on a wheel in Acherusian deep,
Upon whose weary eyelids not for ever
Descends the healing balm of angel sleep.
I see some dragon-fly with wings outshadow
The current-dancing midge, whose murmur fails
Beneath the swooping tyrant of the meadow,
Bat-like and spectral, with loud latticed sails.
The current-dancing midge, whose murmur fails
Beneath the swooping tyrant of the meadow,
Bat-like and spectral, with loud latticed sails.
At eve thou loomest like a one-eyed giant
To some poor crazy knight, who pricks along,
And sees thee wave in haze thy arms defiant,
And growl the burden of thy grinding song.
To some poor crazy knight, who pricks along,
And sees thee wave in haze thy arms defiant,
And growl the burden of thy grinding song.
Against thy russet sail-sheet slowly turning,
The raven beats belated in the blast:
Behind thee ghastly, bloodred Eve is burning,
Above, rose-feathered drifts are racking fast.
The raven beats belated in the blast:
Behind thee ghastly, bloodred Eve is burning,
Above, rose-feathered drifts are racking fast.
The curlews pipe around their plaintive dirges,
Thou art a Pharos to the sea-mews hoar,
Set sheer above the tumult of the surges,
As sea-mark on some spacious ocean floor.
Thou art a Pharos to the sea-mews hoar,
Set sheer above the tumult of the surges,
As sea-mark on some spacious ocean floor.
My heart is sick with gazing on thy feature,
Old blackened sugar-loaf with fourfold wings,
Thou seemest as some monstrous insect creature,
Some mighty chafer armed with iron stings.
Old blackened sugar-loaf with fourfold wings,
Thou seemest as some monstrous insect creature,
Some mighty chafer armed with iron stings.
Emblem of man, who, after all his moaning,
And strain of dire immeasurable strife,
Has yet this consolation, all atoning,—
Life, as a windmill grinds the bread of Life.
And strain of dire immeasurable strife,
Has yet this consolation, all atoning,—
Life, as a windmill grinds the bread of Life.
| The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley | |