Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE LINK, by NORMAN ROWLAND GALE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE LINK, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Labour past hercules! With golden broom
Last Line: Who by a stroke of genius thought of death!
Subject(s): Man-woman Relationships; Memory; Morning; Male-female Relations


LABOUR past Hercules! With golden broom
The sun has swept the playmate stars to doom,
And, glittering on my pillow like a gem,
Has changed the glow of dream to daylight's gloom.

I rouse, once more in bonds of callous clay,
Too wildered yet to note how dull the day;
I turn, and for one lovely instant see
The shape of her with whom all night I lay.

Thanks, Tender Heart, that somewhere from the deep
Of Space hast tossed a wonder into sleep,
That sufferers of the daylight may rejoice
Their dearest festivals in dreams to keep!

Against the bend of blueness overhead
She flits who scattered lilies in my bed;
Who bargained well with Wretchedness for me,
And nightlong dared the Keeper of the Dead.

How shall the Tulip with her glances bright
Tempt me to bear the punishment of light,
When such a radiance as can flood my soul
Is poured magicianly by dreams at night?

And how shall Philomel, by song oppressed,
At starfall seek to lure me from my rest,
When haply, lost in slumber, I may hear
Young Cupid harping in that clovered breast?

Out of the camp of spirits rush apace,
Girl with the hands as soft as foam of lace!
Sound the low sob of rapture, and again
Upon my pillow trust that flowering face!

Thou whisperest clearly. There is much to tell
Of rainbows standing on the dark of Hell;
Of new-come travellers, hardly sure of bliss,
And haunted by the tolling of a bell.

And thou hast seen the jewels in the hilt
Of Michael's sword; and even heard the lilt
Of countless angles turning to a beam
The dockyard where the mighty stars are built.

Look deeply in my eyes ere Morning scars
The breathing East with all his crimson bars,
That once again my heart may leap to know
How poor is Heaven! how rich my bed with stars!

Since live I must, I live unsoured and brave
Till Time dig deep; for Time's the digging slave.
Fixed as the doorway to my dead, I know
That somewhere in the background smiles the grave.

Honour for ever to the King who saith
The soul shall breathe in creatures made of breath!
But triple honour be for ever His
Who by a stroke of genius thought of death!





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