--But the sudden nip of knives, The lady aching for her stiffening lord, The passionate-fearful bride And beaded pallor clamped to the torment-board, --Leave they no ghosts, no memories by the stairs? No sheeted glimmer treading floorless ways? No haunting melody of lovers' airs, Nor stealthy chill upon the noon of days? No: for the dead and senseless walls have long forgotten What passionate hearts beneath the grass lie rotten.
Only from roofs and chimneys pleasantly sliding Tumbles the rain in the early hours: Patters its thousand feet on the flowers, Cools its small grey feet in the grasses.
Sand hot to haunches: Sun beating eyes down, Yet they peer under lashes At the hill's crown:
See how the hill slants Up the sky half way; Over the top tall clouds Poke, gold and grey.
Down: see a green field Tipped on its short edge, Its upper rim straggled round By a black hedge.
Grass bright as new brass: Uneven dark gorse Stuck to its own shadow, _Like Judy that black horse_.
Birds clatter numberless, And the breeze tells That bean-flower somewhere Has ousted the blue-bells:
Birds clatter numberless: In the muffled wood Big feet move slowly: Mean no good.
Snow wind-whipt to ice Under a hard sun: Stream-runnels curdled hoar Crackle, cannot run.
Robin stark dead on twig, Song stiffened in it: Fluffed feathers may not warm Bone-thin linnet:
Big-eyed rabbit, lost, Scrabbles the snow, Searching for long-dead grass With frost-bit toe:
Mad-tired on the road Old Kelly goes; Through crookt fingers snuffs the air Knife-cold in his nose.
Hunger-weak, snow-dazzled, Old Thomas Kelly Thrusts his bit hands, for warmth 'Twixt waistcoat and belly.
Unguarded stands the shuttered sky: The creeping Thief of Night With tool and hook begins to ply His careful picking: he would pry And filch her coffered light. The soundless tapping of his bar Pricks out each sudden star.
The soundless tapping of his bar Lets out the wealthy Moon: The frozen Bright goes arching far On buttresses of lucid spar And lights the road to Cloun; And all the pouring of her riches Floats on the silent ditches.
The crescent road is ivory Between the silver water: But squat and black and creeping, see, Blank as the shadow of a tree, Old Robert and his daughter Toil on: and fearful, each descries Moon-gleams in other's eyes.