Mandragora/The Horizon

by John Cowper Powys

For works with similar titles, see The Horizon.

THE HORIZON

PALE trees on the horizon grow,
  Pale, faint and dim and grey —
Can they be real trees? They flow
    Into the mist away.
Between us the valleys are green and wide,
But what is beyond on the other side?

Beyond I see a wooden pier,
    Stretching into a shadowy lake.
And a sudden cry of wild-fowl I hear
    As over the reeds their flight they take.
Over the reeds and far away
Beyond the trees, dim, pale and grey;
    A wooden pier — a shadowy pond.
    But what is beyond? What is beyond?

Beyond there is a long, long road.
    Bordered by ditches dark and wide.
Where a wayfarer with a heavy load
    Talks to the silence at his side.
Talks to the silence and talks to the trees.
But what is beyond, beyond all these?

Beyond is a house with a ruined wall,
    Where the long road enters an ancient wood.
And its rafters rot and sink and fall,
    And nothing disturbs its solitude,

Only a heron, high up in the sky,
Cries with a melancholy cry;
    Cries to the house, to the road and the trees,
    Cries to the wayfarer passing these;
Between us the valleys are green and wide,
But what is beyond — on the other side?

Pale trees on the horizon grow,
    Pale, faint and dim and grey.
Can they be real trees? They flow
    Into the mist away!
Beyond and beyond, and further still,
Beyond, till we cross the world's last hill —
So it goes. So it always will!