ALONG the lifted line of sombre green The sunset bonfire calms in golden space, The one hedge oak against the splendour seen Like a squat idol grossly stares at grace. The white star's come, no witness saw it come, The music is the night in reed and thorn; The young bird doubts and stirs, then nestles home, That winged dew rustles on. O Vesper-born, Stiff-necked I stand like that hewn knotty tree, As if heaven were my halo! Your dim span Seemed scarce from fern to wildbriar; but began And died? Your moment was infinity. I bowed not, trembled not; as though I were The carven botch of an idolater. |