THE SUN SHINES, The coltsfoot flowers along the railway banks Shine like flat coin which Jove in thanks Strews each side the lines. A steeple In purple elms, daffodils Sparkle beneath; luminous hills Beyond—and no people. England, Oh Danaë To this spring of cosmic gold That falls on your lap of mould! What then are we? What are we Clay-coloured, who roll in fatigue As the train falls league by league From our destiny? A hand is over my face, A cold hand. I peep between the fingers To watch the world that lingers Behind, yet keeps pace. Always there, as I peep Between the fingers that cover my face! Which then is it that falls from its place And rolls down the steep? Is it the train That falls like meteorite Backward into space, to alight Never again? Or is it the illusory world That falls from reality As we look? Or are we Like a thunderbolt hurled? One or another Is lost, since we fall apart Endlessly, in one motion depart From each other.
WAR-BABY
THE CHILD like mustard-seed Rolls out of the husk of death Into the woman's fertile, fathomless lap. Look, it has taken root! See how it flourisheth. See how it rises with magical, rosy sap! As for our faith, it was there When we did not know, did not care; It fell from our husk like a little, hasty seed. Sing, it is all we need. Sing, for the little weed Will flourish its branches in heaven when we slumber beneath.
NOSTALGIA
THE WANING MOON looks upward; this grey night Slopes round the heavens in one smooth curve Of easy sailing; odd red wicks serve To show where the ships at sea move out of sight. The place is palpable me, for here I was born Of this self-same darkness. Yet the shadowy house below Is out of bounds, and only the old ghosts know I have come, I feel them whimper in welcome, and mourn. My father suddenly died in the harvesting corn And the place is no longer ours. Watching, I hear No sound from the strangers, the place is dark, and fear Opens my eyes till the roots of my vision seems torn. Can I go no nearer, never towards the
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