Transitional Poem
11
Look, where cloud squadrons areStampeded by the wind,A boy's kite sits as calm as MinosIf the string be sound:But if there are no handsTo keep the cable tenseAnd no eyes to mark a flaw in it,What use the differenceBetween a gust that twittersAlong the wainscot at dawnAnd a burly wind playing the zanyIn fields of barleycorn?
The time has gone when weCould sprawl at ease betweenLight and darkness, and deduceOmnipotence from our Mean.For us the gregorianExample of those eyesThat risked hell's blight and heaven's blindingBut dared not compromise.
3
That afternoon we lay on Lillington CommonThe land wallowed around us in the sunlight;But finding all things my strenuous sense includedCiphers new-copied by the indefinite sunlight,
