 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
176
THE STAGE OF HEAVEN
The sun's broad back is leagues away,
The chilly fields are washed with grey;
The distant woodlands fade
In one thin belt of shade.
The chilly fields are washed with grey;
The distant woodlands fade
In one thin belt of shade.
The clouds from furthest marge to marge
Grow dark and imminent and large;
Huge heights and summits dim
Intolerably grim.
Grow dark and imminent and large;
Huge heights and summits dim
Intolerably grim.
The drear uncertain gulf is spanned
By bridges desperately planned,
The cloud-fronts drip with red
As though a monster bled.
By bridges desperately planned,
The cloud-fronts drip with red
As though a monster bled.
What means this furious pageantry
Enacted in the tortured sky?
The impalpable array
Of horror and dismay?
Enacted in the tortured sky?
The impalpable array
Of horror and dismay?
The tiniest grain of sand would race
Unspent from battlement to base,
The lark's unruffled crest
Might pierce that mountain's breast.
Unspent from battlement to base,
The lark's unruffled crest
Might pierce that mountain's breast.
177
My God, that dost erect thy stage
For such unreal fantastic rage,
And pile these forms unkind
Of mists and subtle wind,
For such unreal fantastic rage,
And pile these forms unkind
Of mists and subtle wind,
Say, are the woes we read in thee—
Wrath, judgment, blankest misery—
But thy unkindly play,
That dawn-winds sweep away?
Wrath, judgment, blankest misery—
But thy unkindly play,
That dawn-winds sweep away?
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |