 | Between Doubting and Daring |  |
27
A Want-Wit
The long, strait pastures threaded on the stream
All night beneath soft rain-showers lay a-dream,
But waked when rose-red clearness still increased
Beyond one low grey cloud that rimmed the East
In stone-wall country-wise. For then the sun
Smote gems' fire from the blade-drops all and one,
Yet wrought them cells unseen in crystal air
Ray-warmed, till soon they had vanished everywhere.
Only the tangled grass along the hedges
Trailed coldly drenched; the ripple side of the sedges
Scarce wetter footing yielded; none the less,
Even there, in shelter of some bush-screened recess,
The briars and little thorn-leaves curtained round
Had let no drop prick through. The brown bare ground
In one of these close nooks by ruins showed
That there o'ernight a ruddy flame had glowed;
For ashes white on crookt twigs black and charred
Flaked thick, as if, indeed, the feathers barred
Silver and sable, wear of furtive pye,
Lay plucked and strewn. And on the bank anigh
Sat blinking at the sun, his dark head flecked
With rime frost, he who had reared that fire now wrecked.
All night beneath soft rain-showers lay a-dream,
But waked when rose-red clearness still increased
Beyond one low grey cloud that rimmed the East
In stone-wall country-wise. For then the sun
Smote gems' fire from the blade-drops all and one,
Yet wrought them cells unseen in crystal air
Ray-warmed, till soon they had vanished everywhere.
Only the tangled grass along the hedges
Trailed coldly drenched; the ripple side of the sedges
Scarce wetter footing yielded; none the less,
Even there, in shelter of some bush-screened recess,
The briars and little thorn-leaves curtained round
Had let no drop prick through. The brown bare ground
In one of these close nooks by ruins showed
That there o'ernight a ruddy flame had glowed;
For ashes white on crookt twigs black and charred
Flaked thick, as if, indeed, the feathers barred
Silver and sable, wear of furtive pye,
Lay plucked and strewn. And on the bank anigh
Sat blinking at the sun, his dark head flecked
With rime frost, he who had reared that fire now wrecked.
'Twas Joe the Fool, met oft on many a road;
Beside him shone his nowise heavy load,
Tin cans a few, and mugs, and platters small,
Whence flashed, the sunbeams blanched and dazzling all,
Came bickered. But Joe's eyes a wilder light
Held constantly than flits at fall of night
On glancing wings about the skies' far height,
Ne'er caught and caged to make a sheen discreet
In silent chamber or in bustling street.
And here they look half puzzled, scarce awake,
From paths of slumber jostled by a shake
Suddenly; and gruff the voice that hailed him back
To tread this earth. ‘Come now, my man, just pack.
You're trespassing on private lands; no place
For you at all.’ Whereon with sauntering pace,
Along the hedge had passed, in cap and cape,
'Twixt shadow and shine the sombre portly shape.
Beside him shone his nowise heavy load,
Tin cans a few, and mugs, and platters small,
Whence flashed, the sunbeams blanched and dazzling all,
Came bickered. But Joe's eyes a wilder light
Held constantly than flits at fall of night
On glancing wings about the skies' far height,
28
In silent chamber or in bustling street.
And here they look half puzzled, scarce awake,
From paths of slumber jostled by a shake
Suddenly; and gruff the voice that hailed him back
To tread this earth. ‘Come now, my man, just pack.
You're trespassing on private lands; no place
For you at all.’ Whereon with sauntering pace,
Along the hedge had passed, in cap and cape,
'Twixt shadow and shine the sombre portly shape.
But Joe the Fool a while yet round him gazed
In meditation haply that appraised
The interwoven green and airy rift
Of azure, glistening with the snow-cloud's drift,
The patient droop of seed-plumed grass, the cry
From bird to bird, and stream's song crooning by.
Said then to himself: ‘The sorrow a bit I see
What ails this place; 'tis well enough for me.
Queer talk the pólis do be having. Sure
You'd think there was no place but owned a door,
And they the key. Howe'er, I'm stepping on,
And apt to find as good before I'm gone
A great way further.’ So, with hand deep-curved
To shield the tiny flame that swayed and swerved
In breeze's breath, his morning pipe he lit.
‘My notion is, poor man, he wants the wit,
And arguing with a one that's short of it
Is labour lost. You might as soon,’ he said,
‘Make shift to strike a match without a head.’
In meditation haply that appraised
The interwoven green and airy rift
Of azure, glistening with the snow-cloud's drift,
The patient droop of seed-plumed grass, the cry
From bird to bird, and stream's song crooning by.
Said then to himself: ‘The sorrow a bit I see
What ails this place; 'tis well enough for me.
Queer talk the pólis do be having. Sure
You'd think there was no place but owned a door,
And they the key. Howe'er, I'm stepping on,
And apt to find as good before I'm gone
A great way further.’ So, with hand deep-curved
To shield the tiny flame that swayed and swerved
In breeze's breath, his morning pipe he lit.
‘My notion is, poor man, he wants the wit,
And arguing with a one that's short of it
Is labour lost. You might as soon,’ he said,
‘Make shift to strike a match without a head.’
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