Poems (Forrest)/The word maker
THE WORD MAKER
Among the burnt, brown grasses upon the brown hillside
He lay and dreamed of heroes who by the spear had died.
His spirit for the stretch and stir of striving muscles cried,
Among the burnt, brown grasses upon the brown hillside.
He lay and dreamed of heroes who by the spear had died.
His spirit for the stretch and stir of striving muscles cried,
Among the burnt, brown grasses upon the brown hillside.
His shrunken limb forgotten, his wavering hand-thrust lost,
He moved, a splendid figure, amid the warring host.
The grey wolf watched him from the rock, the eagle soared on high,
Till Night, the vulture of the Day, went stealing up the sky.
He moved, a splendid figure, amid the warring host.
The grey wolf watched him from the rock, the eagle soared on high,
Till Night, the vulture of the Day, went stealing up the sky.
He woke. The stars were over him. A breath of crushed wild thyme
Came like the scented dust of gods from grinding wheels of Time.
He woke; and far, and silver white, adown the purple skies
He saw the ghost-thing of the moon slip out of Paradise.
Came like the scented dust of gods from grinding wheels of Time.
He woke; and far, and silver white, adown the purple skies
He saw the ghost-thing of the moon slip out of Paradise.
Threading the pathways of the vale a hundred fire-flies grew
'Twas where the wandering tribesmen couched amid the leaves and dew.
A burst of rude sound split the night, the snap of flint on flint,
But close he pressed the tangled roots among the flattened mint.
'Twas where the wandering tribesmen couched amid the leaves and dew.
A burst of rude sound split the night, the snap of flint on flint,
But close he pressed the tangled roots among the flattened mint.
He saw his flaccid useless hand, his withered palsied limb,
And all the night, as all the day, was desolate to him.
Outcast, a foolish feeble thing . . . with foolish babbling tongue
As empty as a barren breast where only beads are hung.
And all the night, as all the day, was desolate to him.
Outcast, a foolish feeble thing . . . with foolish babbling tongue
As empty as a barren breast where only beads are hung.
The maid who wore the eagle's plume had gibed at him that day,
Her smooth flank softer than a flower against the granite's grey;
A doddering witch had bade him in, and mocked his helpless hate
With jest, that she of all the tribe was fittest for his mate.
Her smooth flank softer than a flower against the granite's grey;
A doddering witch had bade him in, and mocked his helpless hate
With jest, that she of all the tribe was fittest for his mate.
He lay and wept upon his face along the brown hillside.
But Thought crept up the silvered slope and from the river's tide,
Thought of the things that are not war, nor kissing of a maid;
And something moved and strove for birth and clamoured for his aid!
But Thought crept up the silvered slope and from the river's tide,
Thought of the things that are not war, nor kissing of a maid;
And something moved and strove for birth and clamoured for his aid!
Words! words! they travailled in the brain, some red and fierce as flame,
And some as pale as rainy dawns that from the Storm womb came;
And little ones to join their hands, and big ones all alone,
They chattered in the singing leaf, they muttered on a stone!
And some as pale as rainy dawns that from the Storm womb came;
And little ones to join their hands, and big ones all alone,
They chattered in the singing leaf, they muttered on a stone!
Some danced like maidens in the spring, or moths in summer lust;
Some rolled and crowed as naked babes about the blossom-dust;
Some stalked, a chief to council grave; some broke against a kiss;
Some hounded Death on lurking Hate; some rippled into bliss.
Some rolled and crowed as naked babes about the blossom-dust;
Some stalked, a chief to council grave; some broke against a kiss;
Some hounded Death on lurking Hate; some rippled into bliss.
United in a stately march, they grew to mighty things.
Some halted, falling by the way; but some were wise with wings.
And he forgot his shrunken limb, where rhyme with quick rhyme met,
And he forgot his puny form, and made the world forget.
Some halted, falling by the way; but some were wise with wings.
And he forgot his shrunken limb, where rhyme with quick rhyme met,
And he forgot his puny form, and made the world forget.
He sang the words by ruddy fires; he cried them to the height,
Till to the door of skins there crept an amber maid one night.
He barred the way with rigid arm, and he laughed low. and long,
"Thou canst go find a lesser man, for I have wed my song!
Till to the door of skins there crept an amber maid one night.
He barred the way with rigid arm, and he laughed low. and long,
"Thou canst go find a lesser man, for I have wed my song!
"There is no corner in my tent to plight another troth,
The chosen word I make my bride; I have not bed for both."
And in the throbbing, sultry dawn-a blood clout on the grey—
Within a careless heel-track's groove, an eagle's feather lay.
The chosen word I make my bride; I have not bed for both."
And in the throbbing, sultry dawn-a blood clout on the grey—
Within a careless heel-track's groove, an eagle's feather lay.
Among the fine spring grasses upon the green hill-side,
He dreamed no more of heroes, who on the spear-point died,
Gone back to earth that gave them . . . a dust mote blown in space—
He saw the children of his soul linked through the human race.
He dreamed no more of heroes, who on the spear-point died,
Gone back to earth that gave them . . . a dust mote blown in space—
He saw the children of his soul linked through the human race.
A wrinkled crone went clambering towards the hillside's green;
An amber maid crouched very low the amber reeds between.
An amber maid crouched very low the amber reeds between.