 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
223
AT LOCK-UP
Old elm, upon whose wrinkled breast
Three strait domains converge, unite,
Three petty lords, of thee possest,
Each deem thee theirs by legal right;
Three creeping tyrants, each empowered
To hew in hypochondriac haste,
To spoil thy greenness, deep embowered,
To spill thy tranquil life, and waste
The giant pulse that throbs and swells,
That drives the mounting sap full-fed
Through arteries and myriad cells,
A hundred feet above my head.
And doubtless in thy musing hours
Thy spirit, on its airy throne,
Surveys the clustered garden-bowers,
And deems the triple realm thine own.
Three strait domains converge, unite,
Three petty lords, of thee possest,
Each deem thee theirs by legal right;
Three creeping tyrants, each empowered
To hew in hypochondriac haste,
To spoil thy greenness, deep embowered,
To spill thy tranquil life, and waste
The giant pulse that throbs and swells,
That drives the mounting sap full-fed
Through arteries and myriad cells,
A hundred feet above my head.
And doubtless in thy musing hours
Thy spirit, on its airy throne,
Surveys the clustered garden-bowers,
And deems the triple realm thine own.
How cool on early morns in June
To swim aloft in bracing mist,
Before the languors of the noon,
Before the silent vane is kissed
By those pure rays that filter through,
Ere yet the sun has gathered up
His cloudy skirts, and drunk the dew
Pure-globed within the lily's cup:
While yet the pompous jackdaws shout
Their plain complacent litanies,
And more ethereal, less devout,
The lonely thrush adores the skies.
To swim aloft in bracing mist,
Before the languors of the noon,
Before the silent vane is kissed
By those pure rays that filter through,
Ere yet the sun has gathered up
224
Pure-globed within the lily's cup:
While yet the pompous jackdaws shout
Their plain complacent litanies,
And more ethereal, less devout,
The lonely thrush adores the skies.
Weary of trivial mastery,
And tired of seeming to be stern,
I waste a twilight hour to see
The sullen wintry sunset burn
Behind thy blackening bole, and trace
Thy hieroglyphs of knotted boughs,
A demon arm, a tortured face,
Blind eyes beneath o'erweighted brows;
Familiar scars, aloft, unseen,
Unnoted when the leaves are fair;
Forgotten when the world is green;
But welcomed back when all is bare.
And tired of seeming to be stern,
I waste a twilight hour to see
The sullen wintry sunset burn
Behind thy blackening bole, and trace
Thy hieroglyphs of knotted boughs,
A demon arm, a tortured face,
Blind eyes beneath o'erweighted brows;
Familiar scars, aloft, unseen,
Unnoted when the leaves are fair;
Forgotten when the world is green;
But welcomed back when all is bare.
In indistinguishable grey
Ye too are merged: the darkening street
Forgets the noises of the day;
I hear across the hurrying feet
The light conventional farewells,
Of lips with no regretful taint,
Rung home by din of cheerful bells,
Imprisoned in serene constraint;
Young forms across the casements flit,
While blacker grows the thickening gloom,
And one by one the lamps are lit
And twinkle out from room to room.
Ye too are merged: the darkening street
Forgets the noises of the day;
I hear across the hurrying feet
The light conventional farewells,
Of lips with no regretful taint,
Rung home by din of cheerful bells,
Imprisoned in serene constraint;
Young forms across the casements flit,
While blacker grows the thickening gloom,
And one by one the lamps are lit
And twinkle out from room to room.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |