Part 2

Birds clatter numberless: In the muffled wood Big feet move slowly: Mean no good.

Winter

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.

The Moonlit Journey

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.

A Song of the Walking Road

The World is all orange-round: The sea smells salt between: The strong hills climb on their own backs, Coloured and damascene, Cloud-flecked and sunny-green; Knotted and straining up, Up, with still hands and cold: Grip at the slipping sky, Yet cannot hold: Round twists old Earth, and round ... Stillness not yet found.

Plains like a flat dish, too, Shudder and spin: Roads in a pattern crawl Scratched with a pin Across the fields' dim shagreen: --Dusty their load: But over the craggy hills Wanders the Walking Road!

Broad as the hill's broad, Rough as the world's rough, too: Long as the Age is long, Ancient and true, Swinging, and broad, and long: --Craggy, strong.

Gods sit like milestones On the edge of the Road, by the Moon's sill; Man has feet, feet that swing, pound the high hill Above and above, until He stumble and widely spill His dusty bones.

Round twists old Earth, and round ... Stillness not yet found.

The Sermon (Wales, 1920)

Like gript stick Still I sit: Eyes fixed on far small eyes, Full of it: On the old, broad face, The hung chin; Heavy arms, surplice Worn through and worn thin. Probe I the hid mind Under the gross flesh: Clutch at poetic words, Follow their mesh Scarce heaving breath. Clutch, marvel, wonder, Till the words end.

Stilled is the muttered thunder: The hard, few people wake, Gather their books and go ... --Whether their hearts could break How can I know?

The Rolling Saint

Under the crags of Teiriwch, The door-sills of the Sun, Where God has left the bony earth Just as it was begun; Where clouds sail past like argosies Breasting the crested hills With mainsail and foretopsail That the thin breeze fills; With ballast of round thunder, And anchored with the rain; With a long shadow sounding The deep, far plain: Where rocks are broken playthings By petulant gods hurled, And Heaven sits a-straddle The roof-ridge of the World: --Under the crags of Teiriwch Is a round pile of stones, Large stones, small stones, --White as old bones; Some from high places Or from the lake's shore; And every man that passes Adds one more-- The years it has been growing Verge on a hundred score.

For in the Cave of Teiriwch That scarce holds a sheep, Where plovers and rock-conies And wild things sleep, A woman lived for ninety years On bilberries and moss And lizards and small creeping things, And carved herself a cross: But wild hill robbers Found the ancient saint And dragged her to the sunlight, Making no complaint. Too old was she for weeping, Too shrivelled and too dry: She crouched and mumle-mumled And mumled to the sky. No breath had she for wailing, Her cheeks were paper-thin: She was, for all her holiness, As ugly as sin.

They cramped her in a barrel --All but her bobbing head --And rolled her down from Teiriwch Until she was dead: They took her out and buried her --Just broken bits of bone And rags and skin, and over her Set one small stone: But if you pass her sepulchre And add not one thereto The ghost of that old murdered Saint Will roll in front of you The whole night through.

The clouds sail past in argosies And cold drips the rain: The whole world is far and high Above the tilted plain. The silent mists float eerily, And I am here alone:

Dare I pass the place by And cast not a stone?

Weald

Still is the leaden night: The film-eyed moon Spills hardly any light, But nods to sleep--And soon Through five broad parishes there is no sound But the far melancholy wooing Of evil-minded cats; and the late shoeing Of some unlucky filly by the ford.

For twenty miles abroad there is no moving, But for the uncomfortable hooving Of midnight cows a-row in Parson's Lag: --That; and the slow twist of water round a snag.

The silver mist that slumbers in the hollow Dreams of a breeze, and turns upon its side, So sleep uneasy: but no breezes follow, Only the moon blinks slowly thrice, wan-eyed. --I think this is the most unhappy night Since hot-cheeked Hecuba wept in the dawn. --There never was a more unhappy night, Not that when Hero's lamp proved unavailing, Nor that when Bethlehem was filled with wailing ...

... There is no reason for unhappiness, Save that the saddened stars have hid their faces, And that dun clouds usurp their brilliant places, And that the wind lacks even strength to sigh.

And yet, as if outraged by some long tune A dog cries dolefully, green-eyed in the moon ...

The Jumping-Bean (A curious bean, with a small maggot in it, who comes to life and tumbles his dwelling at the stimulus of warmth)

Sun in a warm streak Striping the plush: Catch breath, hold finger tight: All delight hush.

Dance, small grey thing Sleek in the warm sun: Roll around, to this, to that, --Rare wormy fun!

Hot sun applauds thee: Warm fingers press To wake the small life within Thy rotund dress.

Alack! Have years in cupboard, In chill and dark, Stifled thy discontent? Snufft thy spark?

Liest thou stark, stiff, There in thy bed? _Weep then a dirge for him: Poor Bean's dead!_

Old Cat Care outside the Cottage (1918)

Green-eyed Care May prowl and glare And poke his snub, be-whiskered nose: But Door fits tight Against the Night: Through criss-cross cracks no evil goes.

Window is small: No room at all For Worry and Money, his shoulder-bones: Chimney is wide, But Smoke's inside And happy Smoke would smother his moans.

Be-whiskered Care May prowl out there: But I never heard He caught the Blue Bird!

Cottager is given the Bird (1921)

Sidelong the Bird ran, Hard-eyed on the turned mould: Was door--window--wide? --Then Heart grew kettle-cold.

Might no wind-suckt curtain Dim that travelling Eye? Could Door's thick benediction Deafen: if he should cry?

Sidelong the Bird crept Into the stark door: His yellow, lidless eye! Foot chill to the stone floor!

... Then Smoke, that slender baby, To Hearth's white Niobe-breast Sank trembling--dead. Oh Bird, Bird, spare the rest!

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He has bidden bats to flit In Window's wide mouth: Starlings to tumble, and mock Poor Pot's old rusty drouth:

And a wet canker, nip Those round-breasted stones That I hugged to strong walls With the love of my strained bones.

He bad lank Spider run, Grow busy, web me out With dusty trespass stretcht From mantel to kettle-spout.

Door, Window, Rafter, Chimney, Grow silent, die: All are dead: all moulder: Sole banished mourner I.

See how the Past rustles Stirring to life again ... Three whole years left I lockt Behind that window-pane.

A Man

He is a man in love with grass, He shivers at a tree: Thrill of wing in briar-bushes Wildly at his heart pushes Like the first, faint hint A lover is let see.

If he had known a wordless song As a bird he would sing; Who took delight in slim rabbits, Watched their delicate habits, --Waited, by the briar-bush, That flutter of wooing.

_Why did he break that small wing?_ The sun looks hollowly: Mocking's where the water goes; The breeze bitter in his nose: Mocking eyes wide burning --Lost, lost is he!

Moon-Struck

Cold shone the moon, with noise The night went by. Trees uttered things of woe: Bent grass dared not grow:

Ah desperate man with haggard eyes And hands that fence away the skies On rock and briar stumbling, Is it fear of the storm's rumbling, Of the hissing cold rain, Or lightning's tragic pain Drives you so madly? See, see the patient moon; How she her course keeps Through cloudy shallows and across black deeps, Now gone, now shines soon: Where's cause for fear?

'I shudder and shudder At her bright light: I fear, I fear, That she her fixt course follows So still and white Through deeps and shallows With never a tremor: Naught shall disturb her. I fear, I fear What they may be That secretly bind her: What hand holds the reins Of those sightless forces That govern her courses. Is it Setebos Who deals in her command? Or that unseen Night-Comer With tender curst hand? --I shudder, and shudder.'

Poor storm-wisp, wander! Wind shall not hurt thee, Rain not appal thee, Lightning not blast thee; Thou art worn so frail Only the moonlight pale To an ash shall burn thee, To an invisible Pain.

Ænigma

How can I tell it? I saw a thing That I did not find strange In my visioning.

A flawless tall mirror, Glass dim and green; And a tall, dim figure There was between:

Pale, so pale her face As veils of thin water; And her eyes water-pale, And the moonlight on her;

And she was dying, dying; She combed her long hair, And the crimson blood ran In the fine gold there.

She was dying, dying ... And in her perfect eye No terror lurked; nor pity That she should so die.

Lament for Gaza

You who listen, pity Gaza, this poor city; For now the roof rocks, And the blind god's hands Grope at the pillars where he stands: While Gaza mocks, While Gaza mocks.

The Image

Dim the light in your faces: be passionless in the room. Snuffed are the tapers, and bitterly hang on the flowerless air: See: and this is the Image of her they will lay in the tomb, Clear, and waxen, and cooled in the mass of her hair.

Quiet the tears in your voices: feel lightly, finger, for finger In love: then see how like is the Image, but lifelessly fashioned And sightless, calm, unloving ... Oh who is the Artist? Oh linger And ponder whither has flitted his Sitter Impassioned.

Felo de Se

If I were stone dead and buried under, Is there a part of me would still wander, Shiver, mourn, and cry Alack, With no body to its back?

When brain grew mealy, turned to dust, Would lissom Mind, too, suffer rust? Immortal Soul grow imbecile, Having no brain to think and feel?

--Or grant it be as priests say, And growth come on my death-day: Suppose Growth came: would Certainty? Or would Mind still a quester be,

Frame deeper mysteries, not find them out, And wander in a larger Doubt? --Alas, if to Mind's petty stir Death prove so poor a silencer:

Though veins when emptied a few hours Of this hot blood, might suckle flowers: _From spiritual flames that scorch me Never, never were I free!_

Then back, Death! Till I call thee Hast come too soon! ... _Thou silly worm, gnaw not Yet thine intricate cocoon._

The Birds-nester

_A Memorial, to an Unfortunate Young Man, Expelled from his University for a Daring Neologism_

Critic, that hoary Gull, in air Whistles, whistles shrilly: Climbing Youth, beware Murder and mockery!

That wheeling, hoary gull Bats on his thin skull, Claws at his steady eyes, Whinnies and cries: Youth flings the gibe back. Hundreds of wings clack, Bright eyes encircle, search For foothold's fatal lurch. 'See now he shifts his grip: Loosen each finger-tip! Whew, brothers, shall he slip?' Crack-tendoned, answers Youth 'I seek for Eggs of Truth.'

Claws clutch his hair, Beaks prick his eyes-- 'Whistle, _Despair_, _Despair!_ With ancient quills prise Every hand's--foot's--hold, Wedged in the rock's fold! Batter and scream, bewilder This impious babel-buil ... whew! Down he is rocketing falling twisting.'

For days and nights Time's curly breakers Winnow him, wash him ... What is that stirs? What wing from the heights Slants to that murdered limb?

Gull's peering eye bath spotted Something the sea has rotted. Secretly to the feast Dives big gull, less, and least; For Age never dies: Age shall pick out his eyes, Taste them with critick zest, --Age knows the Best! --Age shall build his lair Out of his hair: Gulp his small splintered bones To his gizzard, for stones: Feed on his words All his young woolly birds.

Say not he died in vain! All that he cried in pain Ear-cocked Age hearkens to Someday. Declares it true Someday.

What though he fell? The jest Feathers old Critic's nest.

By arrangement with the author, and with the gracious permission of his publishers, _The Golden Cockerel Press, Waltham Saint Lawrence, Berkshire, England_, this edition of _Gipsy-Night and Other Poems_ becomes the third publication issued by _The Private Press of Will Ransom: Maker of Books, 14 West Washington Street, Chicago, U. S. A._

Composition and presswork by _Will Ransom_, assisted by _Edmond A. Hunt_; binding by _Anthony Faifer_. Printing finished _September 30th, 1922_.

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Transcriber's Notes

Obvious printer errors were silently corrected.

Archaic and variable spelling was preserved.