58
Transitional Poem
Wrenching a stony song from a scant acre,The Word still justifies its Maker. Green fields were my slippers, Sky was my hat, But curiosity Killed the cat. For this did I burst My daisy band— To be clapped in irons By a strange hand?Nevertheless, you are well out of Eden:For there's no wonder where all things are new;No dream where all is sleep; no vision whereSeer and seen are one; nor prophecyWhere only echo waits upon the tongue. Now he has come to a country of stone walls,Breathes a precarious air.Frontiers of adamant declareA cold autonomy. There echo starves;And the mountain ash bleeds stoically thereAbove the muscular stream.What cairn will show the way he went:A harrow rusting on defeated bones?Or will he leave a luckier testament—Rock deeply rent,Fountains of spring playing upon the air?
