That land is very old and lonely
Beneath—among—the cliffs its only
Hope is kindling firelight
Before the coming of the night,
Before
There are no travelers there
Left any more to come and share
The shelter from the ghost wolves' patter,
The helter-skelter, bony clatter
The helter-skelter
And the scatter
Of riven, driven souls that chatter
Beneath the cliffs, while in and out
Among them raves the death wolves' rout,
Beneath, among, before.
And ever from each waning fire
Away—away—against desire
The death wolves snatch their struggling toll,
And snarl and harry down a soul,
And snarl
And harry down one other,
And then another and another,
To where Death sits, an idiot,
That stirs all things into a pot,
That stirs
Till everything is nought
Except the stirrer and the pot;
Beside eternities midriff,
Where time is bordered by a cliff,
With creaking bones and dismal whoop
He makes God's bitter charnel soup—
"Away," he cries, "or we shall quarrel,
Away, my wolves, for more and snarl
Away! Away! and snarl."
THE HERMITAGE OF BELLS.
A Drama of Sound.
Dramatis Personae.
The King.
The Queen.
The World,
The Five Bells.
The Earth.
Time: The Middle Ages.
Place: Lusitania.
I.
The king builds a hermitage from life and passion wherein he hangs many bells.
The king has built a hermitage of bells
Beyond the city walls upon a hill,
Save when the bells are ringing for the king,
His garden by the sea is forest still,
Set on a cape curved like a hunter's horn,
Rock terraced like the temples of Cathay,
It overlooks the town and fields of corn
And glimpses topsail-ships at break of day.
And there a deep spring flows called Blanchefontaine
That sings a deathlike monody of rest,
All night the sick moon totters on its alban waters—
It drips a sound like summer rain,
When the sun opens up his eye,
Until he stares like Cyclops from the west.
It slips through oak groves with an easy motion,
Twinkling like starlight from its shady source,
Three times it curves before it meets the ocean
Across the tide rip hoarse.