Though my soul without control 
die beneath its yoke of dust, 
yet the word had need of flesh; 
so there's reason in my lust.

Aestheticize, anaesthetize, 
one is mist, the other fog. 
Propriety, licentiousness, 
two names, but the same old dog!

The good soil is corrupted, 
and deadly clean the snow. 
Pull the root of the wormy fruit 
and where will the fine fruit grow?

 BROKEN THREAD

In the young Spring I went 
travelling for a day 
under a dark tent 
and lost my way. 
I was well lost I know 
under branch-veined skies, 
mind and feet slow, 
with no surmise.

Deep in the forest's eye 
I slipped control 
of evil with a cry 
that eased my soul. 
The prophet's voice was drowned 
in the great well of quiet 
that gulped away the sound 
of sudden riot. 
And nothing after stirred 
from the earth up to the sky 
but the rippling lid of a bird 
winking his eye.

There in the cracked old light 
a pond, a boy, a tree 
composed a lovely sight 
for me.
The pond was Muskrat Pond, 
the tree was the old Crab Tree, 
and the boy was fresh and fond 
as boys can be. 
It was 'a needle-cool 
shower of clear joy 
to find my darling pool 
and my lost boy.

His mouth said no word, 
being subject to his will; 
he kept so still that I heard 
him keeping still.
But his grey-blue eyes, glassed 
with frozen tears, 
cried out to me: At last 
you thread the years 
and break time's thick door
and reach me . . . Come then quick! 
And warm my eyes before 
you lose that trick!

But my feet drew away 
from that pitiful dare 
to the world's black day, 
and left him there.

 NEW BRIDE

On her quivering lips I see 
frightened ghosts of gladness, three, 
joy and gentle mockery
and wistfulness half-hiding; 
in their trembling curves I find 
ancient meanings lost to mind 
bold desires intertwined 
with wild fear abiding.

Age-old artistry I trace 
in the sculpture of her face; 
gaining such exultant grace
myriad moulds were broken. 
There's a ring upon her hand, 
tiny glittering golden band; 
high the walls of wonderland 
frown on such a token.
Slowly mists begin to rise 
in the deep dark of her eyes, 
fear bewildering the skies
as the night comes speeding; 
recklessly her hands enclose 
one long stem of bramble rose, 
crimson wine upon the snows 
of her fingers bleeding.

TO MY FATHER DROWNED AT SEA

They said that days would doctor my great III, 
would grow as good as new what grief had set; 
and so I waited while they worked their will; 
but twenty slow years had availed not yet 
to end the long drouth nor to quench the pain 
that scorched away the green blades of my sowing, 
sending but fickle gusts of teasing rain 
to sprout for withering what might be growing. 
This day the dry road has a phosphor gleam, 
the grassland flows to water for your child, 
your salty laughter breaks my sullen dream 
and all the world runs wet and deep and wild. 
You stood your trick on deck through my long sleeping, 
hands on the wheel, eyes to the weather keeping!
 

WELCOME 

(to Beth)

My doors are flung wide open, 
my windows lifted high 
for the little girl in calico 
when she draws nigh.

And I can hardly breathe at all 
my heart makes such a din, 
for the little queen in calico 
when she walks in!

LOWLANDS LOW 

(to my Father)

What can be better than to let the screen of years 
fold up and leave a boy, 
a fireplace and a man there singing? 
The last light dying from the coals, the last note dying 
in the ears of the song-captured idolater . . . 
remembering days that shall not be again 
except this way, remembering, 
letting the image enter well-used doors, 
the smell of Harris tweed and English leather, 
the smell of 'Old Chum' smoking, 
the clean aroma of a man. 
No words to hint the quality of his voice, 
the salt-edge in it, the sweet and vibrant sorrow.

No way to hint the quality of his eyes, 
set bold and challenging, yet queerly shy, 
dark mirrors of a boy's unslaked delight 
in all things various and strange, 
in all the heaped-up helping life had served him.

His song, The Lowlands Low, not mouthed from a book 
but taken alive and terrible from the sea . . . 
to remember the thickening in my throat 
when "his shipmates picked him up and on the deck he died," 
the brave boy, the betrayal, the irreparable loss, 
my father's eyes half-closed upon the last long note, 
"and they sank him in the Lowlands Low!"