UNDER the mountain lawn Are caverns, yea, there are many On no cliff face that yawn, Nor may be reached by any Fissure, or crevice, or chink Through which the stoat might slink, Or winter-dreading snake His way to their vastness make. Lakes in those rock-halls sleep, Huge cisterns, water lanes, Pure in black darkness and deep, The storage of old rains; In corridor, aisle, and transept As pure and as long have slept Vast volumes of the night air, For wind was never there. Beautiful on the lawn The hooves of the centaur sound, Thrilling the peaceful dawn, And echoing underground: But maddening, grander, divine Music, though unenjoyed, Must float over tarns of the mine, Which heard would enkindle a bliss Excelling that on silence buoyed, When, mute as my worship is, Round a dome that has all things spanned The stars unnumbered stand. I am the centaur, who knows The beauty of hooves is sound; And not like the horse that goes Unenraptured over the ground. The wisest of men I track, And take them upon my back; Pitying their steps so weak, But entranced to hear them speak. They say the adventurous mind, Where thought has yet no roads, Holds there are yet to find Vast and divine abodes In the central secret soul, Where purpose and grace do roll Like music tombed in the lawn, When I gallop for joy at dawn; Like silence of stars by night, When their beauty exerts her might. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ELEGY: THE GHOST WHOSE LIPS WERE WARM; FOR GEOFFREY GORER by EDITH SITWELL BALLAD OF HUMAN LIFE by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES SONGS FOR MY MOTHER: 3. HER WORDS by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH THIRD BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 17. A LOVER'S PLEA by THOMAS CAMPION FAREWELL TO ARMS by GEORGE PEELE |