the listless beauty of the hour

when snow fell on the apple trees

and the wood-ash gathered in the fire

and we faced our first miseries.

then the sweeping sunshine of noon

when the mountains like chariot cars

were ranked to blue battle—and you and i

counted our scars.

and then in a strange, grey hour

we lay mouth to mouth, with your face

under mine like a star on the lake,

and i covered the earth, and all space.

the silent, drifting hours

of morn after morn

and night drifting up to the night

yet no pathway worn.

your life, and mine, my love

passing on and on, the hate

fusing closer and closer with love

till at length they mate.

the cearne

song of a man who has

come through

not i, not i, but the wind that blows through me!

a fine wind is blowing the new direction of time.

if only i let it bear me, carry me, if only it carry

me!

if only i am sensitive, subtle, oh, delicate, a

winged gift!

if only, most lovely of all, i yield myself and am

borrowed

by the fine, fine wind that takes its course through

the chaos of the world

like a fine, an exquisite chisel, a wedge-blade

inserted;

if only i am keen and hard like the sheer tip of a

wedge

driven by invisible blows,

the rock will split, we shall come at the wonder,

we shall find the hesperides.

oh, for the wonder that bubbles into my soul,

i would be a good fountain, a good well-head,

would blur no whisper, spoil no expression.

what is the knocking?

what is the knocking at the door in the night?

it is somebody wants to do us harm.

no, no, it is the three strange angels.

admit them, admit them.

该作者的其它作品

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《儿子与情人 sons and lovers》

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